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I 
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DREAM 
LIFE 


g 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRY,  LOS 


Copyright,  i8«9,  hy  Henry  Altenius 


DONALD  G./  MITCHELL  \w 


iv  D  ED  1C  A  TOR  Y  LE  TTER. 

If  I  have  attained  to  any  facility  in  the 
use  of  language,  or  have  gained  any  fitness 
of  expression,  in  which  to  dress  my 
thoughts, — I  know  not  to  what  writer  of 
the  English  language,  I  am  more  indebted, 
than  to  you.  And  if  I  have  shown — as  I 
have  tried  to  show — a  truthfulness  of  feel 
ing,  that  is  not  lighted  by  any  counterfeit 
of  passion,  but  rather,  by  a  close  watchful 
ness  of  nature,  and  a  cordial  sympathy 
with  human  suffering — I  know  not  to  what 
man's  heart,  that  truthfulness  will  come 
home  sooner,  than  to  your's. 

Believe  me,  Dear  Sir,  it  is  from  no  wish 
to  associate  my  name  with  the  names  of 
the  great,  that  I  ask  your  acceptance  of 
this  little  token  of  respect.  My  aims  are 
humbler  than  this :  I  would  simply  pay 
homage  to  the  Author,  who  has  wrought 
Our  language  into  the  most  exquisite  forms 
of  beauty  ;  and  to  the  man,  who  has  touched 


D  ED  1C  A  TORY  LE  TTER.  v 

our  hearts,  with  the  tenderness  of  a  friend 
And  if  I  might  hope,  that  this  simple 
mark  of  my  admiration,  and  of  my  esteem, 
would  commend  me  to  your  charity — to 
say  nothing  of  your  regard — it  is  all  that 
I  would  ask. 

DONALD  G.  MITCHELL* 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

PAGB 

I.  With  my  Aunt  Tabithy, n 

II.  With  my  Reader, 20 


DREAMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 

SPRING, 33 

I.  Rain  in  the  Garret,      38 

II.  School  Dreams, 46 

III.  Boy  Sentiment, 57 

IV.  A  Friend  Made  and  Friend  Lost,    .  63 
V.  Boy  Religion, 76 

VI.  A  New  England  Squire, 84 


vlii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

VII.  The  Country  Church, 9s 

VIII.  A  Home  Scene, i°S 

DREAMS  OF  YOUTH. 

SUMMER, "7 

I.  Cloister  Life, "4 

II.  First  Ambition, i36 

III.  College  Romance, 142 

IV.  First  Look  at  the  World,     ....  155 

V.  A  Broken  Home, i66 

VI.  Family  Confidence, i?6 

VII.  A  Good  Wife, l84 

VIII.  A  Broken  Hope, '  *92 

DREAMS  OF  MANHOOD. 

AUTUMN, 205 

I.  Pride  of  Manliness, 211 

II.  Man  of  the  World, 219 

III.  Manly  Hops 227 

IV.  Manly  Love, 237 

V.  Cheer  and  Children, 243 

VI.  Dream  of  Darkness, 252 

VII.  Peace, 26r 


CONTENTS.  ix 
DREAMS  OF  AGE. 

PAGE 

WINTER, 27l 

I.  What  is  Gone, 275 

II.  What  is  Left,      282 

III.  Grief  and  Joy  of  Age 288 

IV.  The  End  of  Dreams,      294 


INTRODUCTORY. 


I. 

WITH  MY  AUNT  TABITHY. 

PSHAW  !— said  my  Aunt  Tabithy, 
— have  you  not  done  with  dream 


ing 


My  Aunt  Tabithy,  though  an  excellent 
and  most  notable  person,  loves  occasionally  a 
quiet  bit  of  satire.  And  when  I  told  her  that 
I  was  sharpening  my  pen  for  a  new  story 
of  those  dreamy  fancies,  and  half  experi 
ences,  which  lie  grouped  along  the  journey 
ing  hours  of  my  solitary  life,  she  smiled  as 
if  in  derision. 

"  Ah,  Isaac,"  said  she,  "  all  that  is 

exhausted  :  you  have  rung  so  many  changes 
on  your  hopes  and  your  dreams,  that  you 
have  nothing  left,  but  to  make  them  real 
if  you  can." 


12  DREAM-LIFE. 

It  is  very  idle  to  get  angry  with  a  good- 
natured  old  lady  :  I  did  better  than  this  : 
—I  made  her  listen  to  me. 

Exhausted,  do  you  say,  Aunt  Tabi- 

thy  ?  Is  life  then  exhausted,  is  hope  gone 
out,  is  fancy  dead  ? 

No,  no.  Hope  and  the  world  are  full ; 
and  he  who  drags  into  book-pages  a  phase 
or  two  of  the  great  life  of  passion,  of  endur 
ance,  of  love,  of  sorrow,  is  but  wetting  a 
feather,  in  the  sea  that  breaks  ceaselessly 
along  the  great  shore  of  the  years.  Every 
man's  heart  is  a  living  drama;  every  death 
is  a  drop-scene ;  every  book  only  a  faint 
foot-light  to  throw  a  little  flicker  on  the 
stage. 

There  is  no  need  of  wandering  widely 
to  catch  incident  or  adventure :  they  are 
everywhere  about  us  ;  each  day  is  a  suc 
cession  of  escapes  and  joys  ; — not  perhaps 
clear  to  the  world,  but  brooding  in  our 
thought,  and  living  in  our  brain.  From 
the  very  first,  Angels  and  Devils  are  busy 
with  us,  and  we  are  struggling  against 
them,  and  for  them. 

No,  no,  Aunt  Tabithy, — this  life  of  mus 
ing  does  not  exhaust  so  easily.  It  is  like  the 
springs  on  the  farm-land,  that  are  fed  with 
all  the  showers  and  the  dews  of  the  year, 
and  that  from  the  narrow  fissures  of  the 
rock,  send  up  streams  continually : — or  it  is 


INTRODUCTORY.  13 

like  the  deep  well  in  the  meadow,  where 
one  may  see  stars  at  noon — when  no  stars 
are  shining. 

What  is  Reverie,  and  what  are  these 
Day-dreams,  but  fleecy  cloud-drifts  that  float 
eternally,  and  eternally  change  shapes,  upon 
the  great  over-arching  sky  of  thought  ? 
You  may  seize  the  strong  outlines  that  the 
passion  breezes  of  to-day  shall  throw  into 
their  figures  ;  but  to-morrow  may  breed  a 
whirlwind  that  will  chase  swift,  gigantic 
shadows  over  the  heaven  of  your  thought, 
and  change  the  whole  landscape  of  your 
life. 

Dream-land  will  never  be  exhausted, 
until  we  enter  the  land  of  dreams;  and 
until,  in  "  shuffling  off  this  mortal  coil," 
thought  will  become  fact,  and  all  facts  will 
be  only  thought. 

As  it  is,  I  can  conceive  no  mood  of  mind 
more  in  keeping  with  what  is  to  follow  upon 
the  grave,  than  those  fancies  which  warp 
our  frail  hulks  toward  the  ocean  of  the  In 
finite  ;  and  that  so  sublimate  the  realities 
of  this  being,  that  they  seem  to  belong  to 
that  shadowy  realm,  where  every  day's 
journey  is  leading. 

It  was  warm  weather;  and  my  aunt  was 
dozing.  "What  is  this  all  to  be  about?" 
said  she,  recovering  her  knitting  needle. 

"About  love,  and  toil,  and  duty,  and. 
sorrow,"  said  I. 


14  DREAM-LIFE, 

My  aunt  laid  down  her  knitting,  looked 
at  me  over  the  rim  of  her  spectacles,  and 
took  snuff. 

I  said  nothing. 

"How  many  times  have  you  been  in 
love,  Isaac  ? "  said  she. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  say "  Pshaw ! " 

Judging  from  her  look  of  assurance,  I 
could  not  possibly  have  made  a  more  satis 
factory  reply. 

My  aunt  finished  the  needle  she  was 
upon — smoothed  the  stocking  leg  over  her 
knee,  and  looking  at  me  with  a  very  comi 
cal  expression,  said, — "Isaac,  you  are  a 
sad  fellow !" 

I  did  not  like  the  tone  of  this :  it  sounded 
very  much  as  if  it  would  have  been  in  the 
mouth  of  any  one  else 'bad  fellow.' 

And  she  went  on  to  ask  me  in  a  very 
bantering  way,  if  my  stock  of  youthful 
loves  was  not  nearly  exhausted ;  and  she 
cited  the  episode  of  the  fair-haired  Enrica, 
as  perhaps  the  most  tempting  that  I  could 
draw  from  my  experience. 

A  better  man  than  myself, — if  he  had 
only  a  fair  share  of  vanity, — would  have 
been  nettled  at  this  ;  and  I  replied  some- 
what  tartly,  that  I  had  never  professed  to 
write  my  experiences.  These  might  be 
more  or  less  tempting ;  but  certainly,  if 
they  were  of  a  kind  which  I  have  attempted 


INTRODUCTORY.  13 

to  portray  in  the  characters  of  Bella,  or  of 
Carry,  neither  my  Aunt  Tabithy  nor  any 
one  else,  should  have  learned  such  truth 
from  any  book  of  mine.  There  are  griefs 
too  sacred  to  be  babbled  to  the  world  ;  and 
there  may  be  loves,  which  one  would  for 
bear  to  whisper  even  to  a  friend. 

No,  no, — imagination  has  been  playing 
pranks  with  memory ;  and  if  I  have  made 
the  feeling  real,  I  am  content  that  the  facts 
should  be  false.  Feeling  indeed  has  a 
higher  truth  in  it,  than  circumstance.  It 
appeals  to  a  larger  jury,  for  acquittal :  it 
is  approved  or  condemned  by  a  better 
judge.  And  if  I  can  catch  this  bolder 
and  richer  truth  of  feeling,  I  will  not  mind 
if  the  types  of  it  are  all  fabrications. 

If  I  run  over  some  sweet  experience  of 
love,  (my  Aunt  Tabithy  brightened  a  little/ 
must  I  make  good  the  fact  that  the  loved 
one  lives,  and  expose  her  name  and  quali 
ties,  to  make  your  sympathy  sound  ?  Or 
shall  I  not  rather  be  working  upon  higher 
and  holier  ground,  if  I  take  the  passion 
for  itself,  and  so  weave  it  into  words,  that 
you,  and  every  willing  sufferer  may  recog 
nize  the  fervor,  and  forget  the  personality  ? 

Life  after  all  is  but  a  bundle  of  hints, 
each  suggesting  actual  and  positive  devel- 
opement,  but  rarely  reaching  it.  And  as  I 
recal  these  hints,  and  in  fancy-  trace  them 


16  DR&siAT-LIFE. 

to  their  issues,  I  am  as  truly  dealing  with 
life,  as  if  my  life  had  dealt  them  all  to  me. 

This  is  what  I  would  be  doing  in  the  pres 
ent  book ;  —  I  would  catch  up  here  and 
there  the  shreds  of  feeling,  which  the  bram 
bles  and  roughnesses  of  the  world  have 
left  tangling  on  my  heart,  and  weave  them 
out  into  those  soft,  and  perfect  tissues, 
which — if  the  world  had  been  only  a  little 
less  rough, — might  now  perhaps  enclose 
my  heart  altogether. 

"  Ah,"  said  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  as  she 
smoothed  the  stocking  leg  again,  with  a 
sigh, — "there  is  after  all  but  one  youth- 
time :  and  if  you  put  down  its  memories 
once,  you  can  find  no  second  growth." 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  was  wrong.  There  is 
as  much  growth  in  the  thoughts  and  feel 
ings  that  run  behind  us,  as  in  those  that 
run  before  us.  You  may  make  a  rich,  full 
picture  of  your  childhood  to-day ;  but  let 
the  hour  go  by,  and  the  darkness  stoop  to 
your  pillow  with  its  million  shapes  of  the 
past,  and  my  word  for  it,  you  shall  have 
some  flash  of  childhood  lighten  upon  you, 
that  was  unknown  to  your  busiest  thought 
of  the  morning. 

Let  a  week  go  by ;  and  in  some  interval 
of  care,  as  you  recal  the  smile  of  a  mother, 
or  some  pale  sister  who  is  dead,  a  new  crowd 
of  memories  will  rush  upon  your  soul,  and 


INTRODUCTORY.  ff 

leave  their  traces  in  such  tears  as  will  ma*e 
you  kinder  and  better  for  days  and  weeks. 
Or  you  shall  assist  at  some  neighbor  funeral, 
where  the  little  dead  one  —  (like  one  you 
have  seen  before) — shall  hold  in  its  tiny 
grasp — (as  you  have  taught  little  dead  hands 
to  do) — fresh  flowers,  laughing  flowers, 
lying  lightly  on  the  white  robe  of  the  dear 
child — all  pale — cold — silent 

I  had  touched  my  Aunt  Tabithv  :  she 
had  dropped  a  stitch  in  her  knitting.  I 
believe  she  was  weeping. 

— Aye,  this  brain  of  ours  is  a  master- 
worker,  whose  appliances  we  do  not  one- 
half  know ;  and  this  heart  of  ours  is  a  rare 
storehouse,  furnishing  the  brain  with  new 
material  every  hour  of  our  lives  ;  and  their 
limits  we  shall  not  know,  until  they  shall 
end — together. 

Nor  is  there,  as  many  faint-hearts  imag 
ine,  but  one  phase  of  earnestness  in  our 
life  of  feeling.  One  train  of  deep  emotion 
cannot  fill  up  the  heart :  it  radiates  like  a 
star,  God-ward  and  earth-ward.  It  spends 
and  reflects  all  ways.  Its  force  is  to  be 
reckoned  not  so  much  by  token,  as  by 
capacity.  Facts  are  the  poorest  and  most 
slumberous  evidences  of  passion,  or  of  affec 
tion.  True  feeling  is  ranging  everywhere ; 
whereas  your  actual  attachments  are  too 
apt  to  be  tied  to  sense. 


*8  DREAM-LIFE. 

A  single  affection  may  indeed  be  true, 
earnest  and  absorbing ;  but  such  an  one 
after  all,  is  but  a  type — and  if  the  object  be 
worthy,  a  glorious  type — of  the  great  book 
of  feeling ;  it  is  only  the  vapor  from  the 
cauldron  of  the  heart,  and  bears  no  deeper 
relation  to  its  exhaustless  sources,  than  the 
letter  which  my  pen  makes,  bears  to  the 
thought  that  inspires  it, — or  than  a  single 
morning  strain  of  your  orioles  and  thrushes, 
bears  to  that  wide  bird-chorus,  which  is 
making  every  sunrise — a  worship,  and  every 
grove — a  temple  ! 

My  Aunt  Tabithy  nodded. 

Nor  is  this  a  mere  bachelor  fling  against 
constancy.  I  can  believe,  Heaven  knows, 
in  an  unalterable  and  unflinching  affection, 
which  neither  desires  nor  admits  the  pros 
pect  of  any  other.  But  when  one  is  task 
ing  his  brain  to  talk  for  his  heart, — when 
he  is  not  writing  positive  history,  but  only 
making  mention  (as  it  were)  of  the  heart's 
capacities,  who  shall  say  that  he  has  reached 
the  fullness, — that  he  has  exhausted  the 
stock  of  its  feeling,  or  that  he  has  touched 
its  highest  notes  ?  It  is  true  there  is  but 
one  heart  in  a  man  to  be  stirred  ;  but  every 
stir  creates  a  new  combination  of  feeling, 
that  like  the  turn  of  a  kaleidoscope  will 
show  some  fresh  color,  or  form. 

A  bachelor  to  be  sure  has  a  marvellous 


77V77?  OD  UCTOR  Y.  19 

advantage  in  this ;  and  with  the  tenderest 
influences  once  anchored  in  the  bay  of  mar 
riage,  there  is  little  disposition  to  scud  off 
under  each  pleasant  breeze  of  feeling.  Nay, 
I  can  even  imagine — perhaps  somewhat  cap 
tiously — that  after  marriage,  feeling  would 
become  a  habit,  a  rich  and  holy  habit  cer 
tainly,  but  yet  a  habit,  which  weakens  the 
omnivorous  grasp  of  the  affections,  and 
schools  one  to  a  unity  of  emotion,  that 
doubts  and  ignores  the  promptness  and 
variety  of  impulse,  which  we  bachelors 
possess. 

My  aunt  nodded  again. 

Could  it  be  that  she  approved  what  I  had 
been  saying  ?  I  hardly  knew. 

Poor  old  lady, — she  did  not  know  hersell 
She  was  asleep ! 


II. 

WITH  MY  READER. 

HAVING  silenced  my  Aunt  Tabithy,  1 
shall  be  generous  enough  in  my 
triumph,  to  offer  an  explanatory  chat 
to  my  reader. 

This  is  a  history  of  Dreams  ;  and  there 
will  be  those  who  will  sneer  at  such  a  his 
tory,  as  the  work  of  a  dreamer.  So  indeed 
it  is ;  and  you,  my  courteous  reader,  are  a 
dreamer  too ! 

You  would  perhaps  like  to  find  your 
speculations  about  wealth,  marriage  or  in 
fluence,  called  by  some  better  name  than 
Dreams.  You  would  like  to  see  the  history 
of  them — if  written  at  all — baptized  at  the 
font  of  your  own  vanity,  with  some  such 
title  as — life's  cares,  or  life's  work.  If 
'there  had  been  a  philosophic  naming  to 
my  observations,  you  might  have  reckoned 
them  good:  as  it  is,  you  count  them  all 
bald  and  palpable  fiction. 

But  is  it  so  ?    I  care  not  how  matter  of 

(20) 


WITH  MY  READER.  21 

fact  you  may  be,  you  have  in  your  own 
life,  at  some  time,  proved  the  very  truth  of 
what  I  have  set  down:  and  the  chances 
are,  that  even  now,  gray  as  you  may  be, 
and  economic  as  you  may  be,  and  devo 
tional  as  you  pretend  to  be,  you  light  up 
your  Sabbath  reflections  with  just  such 
dreams  of  wealth,  of  per  centages,  or  of 
family,  as  you  will  find  scattered  over  these 
pages. 

I  am  not  to  be  put  aside  with  any  talk 
about  stocks,  and  duties,  and  respectabil 
ity  :  all  these  though  very  eminent  matters, 
are  but  so  many  types  in  the  'volume  of 
your  thought ;  and  your  eager  resolves 
about  them,  are  but  so  many  ambitious 
waves,  breaking  up  from  that  great  sea  of 
dreamy  speculation,  that  has  spread  over 
your  soul,  from  its  first  start  into  the  realm 
of  CONSCIOUSNESS. 

No  man's  brain  is  so  dull,  and  no  man's 
eye  so  blind,  that  they  cannot  catch  food 
for  dreams.  Each  little  episode  of  life  is 
full,  had  we  but  the  perception  of  its  full 
ness.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  blank,  in 
the  world  of  thought.  Every  action  and 
emotion  have  their  development  growing 
and  gaining  on  the  soul.  Every  affection 
has  its  tears  and  smiles.  Nay,  the  very 
material  world  is  full  of  meaning,  and  by 
suggesting  thought,  is  making  us  what  w* 
are,  and  what  we  will  be. 


at  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  sparrow  that  is  twittering  on  the 
edge  of  my  balcony,  is  calling  up  to  me 
this  moment,  a  world  of  memories  that 
reach  over  half  my  life  time,  and  a  world 
of  hope  that  stretches  farther  than  any 
flight  of  sparrows.  The  rose-tree  which 
shades  his  mottled  coat  is  full  of  buds  and 
blossoms  ;  and  each  bud  and  blossom  is  a 
token  of  promise,  that  has  issues  covering 
life,  and  reaching  beyond  death.  The  quiet 
sunshine  beyond  the  flower  and  beyond 
the  sparrow, — glistening  upon  the  leaves, 
and  playing  in  delicious  waves  of  warmth 
over  the  reeking  earth,  is  lighting  both 
heart  and  hope,  and  quickening  into  activ 
ity  a  thousand  thoughts  of  what  has  been, 
and  of  what  will  be.  The  meadow  stretch 
ing  away  under  its  golden  flood — waving 
with  grain,  and  with  the  feathery  blossoms 
of  the  grass,  and  golden  butter  cups,  and 
white,  nodding  daisies,  comes  to  my  eye 
like  the  lapse  of  fading  childhood, — studded 
here  and  there  with  the  bright  blossoms  of 
joy,  crimsoned  all  over  with  the  flush  of 
health,  and  enamelled  with  memories  that 
perfume  the  soul.  The  blue  hills  beyond, 
with  deep  blue  shadows  gathered  in  their 
bosom,  lie  before  me  like  mountains  of 
years,  over  which  I  shall  climb  through 
shadows  to  the  slope  of  Age,  and  go  down 
to  the  deeper  shadows  of  Death. 


WITH  MY  READER.  23 

Nor  are  dreams  without  their  variety, 
whatever  your  character  may  be.  I  care 
not  how  much,  in  the  pride  of  your  prac 
tical  judgment,  or  in  your  learned  fancies, 
you  may  sneer  at  any  dream  of  love,  and 
reckon  it  all  a  poet's  fiction :  there  are 
times  when  such  dreams  come  over  you 
like  a  summer  cloud,  and  almost  stifle  you 
with  their  warmth. 

Seek  as  you  will  for  increase  of  lands  or 
moneys,  and  there  are  moments  when  a  spark 
of  some  giant  mind  will  flash  over  your  crav 
ings,  and  wake  your  soul  suddenly  to  a  quick, 
and  yearning  sense  of  that  influence  which 
is  begotten  of  intellect ;  and  you  task  your 
dreams — as  I  have  copied  them  here — to 
build  before  you  the  pleasures  of  such  a 
renown. 

I  care  not  how  worldly  you  may  be  :  there 
are  times  when  all  distinctions  seem  like 
dust,  and  when  at  the  graves  of  the  great, 
you  dream  of  a  coming  country,  where  your 
proudest  hopes  shall  be  dimmed  forever. 

Married  or  unmarried,  young  or  old,  poet 
or  worker,  you  are  still  a  dreamer,  and  will 
one  time  know,  and  feel,  that  your  life  is 
but  a  dream.  Yet  you  call  this  fiction  :  you 
stave  off  the  thoughts  in  print  which  come 
over  you  in  reverie.  You  will  not  admit  to 
the  eye  what  is  true  to  the  heart.  Poor 
weakling,  and  worldling,  —  you  are  not 
strong  enough  to  face  yourself ! 


24  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  will  read  perhaps  with  smiles  :  you 
will  possibly  praise  the  ingenuity  :  you  will 
1;alk,  withalip  schooled  against  the  slightest 
quiver,  of  some  bit  of  pathos,  and  say  that 
it  is — well  done.  Yet  why  is  it  well  done  ? 
— only  because  it  is  stolen  from  your  very 
life  and  heart.  It  is  good,  because  it  is  so 
common  : — ingenious,  because  it  is  so  hon 
est  : — well-conceived,  because  it  is  not  con 
ceived  at  all. 

There  are  thousands  of  mole-eyed  people, 
who  count  all  passion  in  print — a  lie  : — peo 
ple  who  will  grow  into  a  rage  at  trifles,  and 
weep  in  the  dark,  and  love  in  secret,  and 
hope  without  mention,  and  cover  it  all  under 
the  cloak  of  what  they  call — propriety.  I  can 
see  before  me  now  some  gray-haired  old  gen 
tleman,  very  money-getting,  very  correct, 
very  cleanly,  who  reads  the  morning  paper 
with  unction,  and  his  Bible  with  determina 
tion  :  who  listens  to  dull  sermons  with  pa 
tience,  and  who  prays  with  quiet  self- 
applause, — and  yet  there  are  moments  be 
longing  to  his  life,  when  his  curdled  affec 
tions  yearn  for  something  that  they  have 
not,  when  his  avarice  oversteps  all  the  com 
mandments, — when  his  pride  builds  castles 
full  of  splendor ;  and  yet  put  this  before  his 
eye,  and  he  reads  with  the  most  careless  air 
in  the  world,  and  condemns  as  arrant  fiction, 
what  cannot  be  proved  to  the  elders. 


WITH  MY  READER.  25 

We  do  not  like  to  see  our  emotions  un 
riddled:  it  is  not  agreeable  to  the  proud 
man  to  find  his  weaknesses  exposed  :  it  is 
shocking  to  the  disappointed  lover  to  see 
his  heart  laid  bare :  it  is  a  great  grief  to 
the  pining  maiden  to  witness  the  exposure 
of  her  loves.  We  do  not  like  our  fancies 

Eainted :  we  do  not  contrive  them  for  re- 
earsal :  our  dreams  are  private,  and  when 
they  are  made  public,  we  disown  them. 

I  sometimes  think  that  I  must  be  a  very 
honest  fellow,  for  writing  down  those  fan 
cies  which  every  one  else  seems  afraid  to 
whisper.  I  shall  at  least,  come  in  for  my 
share  of  the  odium  in  entertaining  such 
fancies :  indeed  I  shall  expect  the  charge 
of  entertaining  them  exclusively ;  and  shall 
scarce  expect  to  find  a  single  fellow-confes 
sor,  unless  it  be  some  pure,  and  innocent 
thoughted  girl,  who  will  say peccavi,  to — 
here  and  there — a  single  rainbow  fancy. 

Well,  I  can  bear  it ;  but  in  bearing  it,  I 
shall  be  consoled  with  the  reflection  that  I 
have  a  great  company  of  fellow-sufferers, 
who  lack  only  the  honesty  to  tell  me  of 
their  sympathy.  It  will  even  relieve  in  no 
small  degree  my  burden,  to  watch  the  effort 
they  will  take  to  conceal,  what  I  have  so 
boldly  divulged. 

Nature  is  very  much  the  same  thing  in 
one  man,  that  it  is  in  another :  and  as  I 


36  DREAM-LIFE. 

have  already  said,  Feeling  has  a  higher 
truth  in  it,  than  circumstance.  Let  it  only 
be  touched  fairly  and  honestly,  and  the 
heart  of  humanity  answers ;  but  if  it  be 
touched  foully  or  one-sidedly,  you  may  find 
here  and  there  a  lame-souled  creature  who 
will  give  response,  but  there  is  no  heart 
throb  in  it. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  sure : — if  my  pictures 
are  fair,  worthy,  and  hearty,  you  must  see 
it  in  the  reading  :  but  if  they  are  forced 
and  hard,  no  amount  of  kindness  can 
make  you  feel  their  truth  as  I  want  them 
felt. 

I  make  no  self-praise  out  of  this  :  if 
feeling  has  been  honestly  set  down,  it  is 
only  in  virtue  of  a  native  impulse,  over 
which  I  have  altogether  too  little  control ; 
but  if  it  is  set  down  badly,  I  have  wronged 
Nature,  and,  (as  Nature  is  kind)  I  have 
wronged  myself. 

A  great  many  inquisitive  people  will,  I 
do  not  doubt,  be  asking  after  all  this  pre 
lude,  if  my  pictures  are  true  pictures? 
The  question, — the  courteous  reader  will 
allow  me  to  say, — is  an  impertinent  one. 
It  is  but  a  shabby  truth  that  wants  an 
author's  affidavit  to  make  it  trust-worthy. 
I  shall  not  help  my  story  by  any  such 
poor  support.  If  there  are  not  enough 
elements  of 'truth,  honesty  and  nature  in 


WITH  MY  READER.  27 

my  pictures,  to  make  them  believed,  they 
shall  have  no  oath  of  mine  to  bolster  them 
up. 

I  have  been  a  sufferer  in  this  way  be 
fore  now ;  and  a  little  book  that  I  had 
the  whim  to  publish  a  year  since,  has  been 
set  down  by  many  as  an  arrant  piece  of 
imposture.  Claiming  sympathy  as  a  Bach 
elor,  I  have  been  recklessly  set  down  as 
a  cold,  undeserving  man  of  family !  My 
story  of  troubles  and  loves  has  been  sneered 
at,  as  the  sheerest  gammon. 

But  among  this  crowd  of  cold-blooded 
critics,  it  was  pleasant  to  hear  of  one  or 
two  pursy  old  fellows  who  railed  at  me,  for 
winning  the  affections  of  a  sweet  Italian 
girl,  and  then  leaving  her  to  pine  in  dis 
content  !  Yet  in  the  face  of  this,  an  old 
companion  of  mine  in  Rome,  with  whom  I 
accidentally  met  the  other  day, — wondered 
how  on  earth  I  could  have  made  so  tempt 
ing  a  story  out  of  the  matronly  and  black- 
haired  spinster,  with  whom  I  happened  to 
be  quartered  in  the  Eternal  City ! 

I  shall  leave  my  critics  to  settle  such 
differences  between  themselves ;  and  con 
sider  it  far  better  to  bear  with  slanders 
from  both  sides  of  the  house,  than  to  be 
wray  the  pretty  tenderness  of  the  pursy 
old  gentlemen,  or  to  cast  a  doubt  upon  the 
practical  testimony  of  my  quondam  com- 


28  DREAM-LIFE. 

panion.  Both  give  me  high  and  judicious 
compliment — all  the  more  grateful  because 
only  half  deserved.  For  I  never  yet  was 
conscious — alas,  that  the  confession  should 
be  forced  from  me  ! — of  winning  the  heart 
of  any  maiden  whether  native,  or  Italian  ; 
and  as  for  such  delicacy  of  imagination  as 
to  work  up  a  lovely  damsel  out  of  the 
withered  remnant  that  forty  odd  years  of 
Italian  life  can  spare,  I  can  assure  my  mid 
dle-aged  friends,  (and  it  may  serve  as  a 
caveaf) — I  can  lay  no  claim  to  it  whatever. 

The  trouble  has  been,  that  those  who 
have  believed  one  passage  have  discredited 
another ;  and  those  who  have  sympathized 
with  me  in  trifles,  have  deserted  me  when 
arfairs  grew  earnest.  I  have  had  sympathy 
enough  with  my  married  griefs ;  but  when 
it  came  to  the  perplexing  torments  of  my 
single  life not  a  weeper  could  I  find  ! 

I  would  suggest  to  those  who  intend  to 
believe  only  half  of  my  present  book,  that 
they  exercise  a  little  discretion  in  their 
choice.  I  am  not  fastidious  in  the  matter; 
and  only  ask  them  to  believe  what  counts 
most  toward  the  goodness  of  humanity, 
and  to  discredit — if  they  will  persist  in  it 
— only  what  tells  badly  for  our  common 
nature.  The  man  or  the  woman  who  be 
lieves  well,  is  apt  to  work  well ;  and  Faith 
k  as  much  the  key  to  happiness  here,  as  it 
is  the  key  to  happiness  hereafter. 


WITH  MY  READER.  29 

I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  say,  before 
I  get  upon  my  story.  A  great  many  sharp- 
eyed  people,  who  have  a  horror  of  light 
reading — by  which  they  mean  whatever 
does  not  make  mention  of  stocks,  cottons, 
or  moral  homilies, — will  find  much  fault 
with  my  book  for  its  ephemeral  character. 

I  am  sorry  that  I  cannot  gratify  such : 
homilies  are  not  at  all  in  my  habit ;  and  it 
does  seem  to  me  an  exhausting  way  of  dis 
posing  of  a  good  moral,  to  hammer  it  down 
to  a  single  point,  so  that  there  shall  be 
only  one  chance  of  driving  it  home.  For 
my  own  part,  I  count  it  a  great  deal  better 
philosophy  to  fuse  it,  and  rarify  it,  so  that 
it  shall  spread  out  into  every  crevice  of  a 
story,  and  give  a  color  and  a  taste,  as  it 
were,  to  the  whole  mass. 

I  know  there  are  very  good  people,  who 
if  they  cannot  lay  their  finger  on  so  much 
decline  set  down  in  old  fashioned  phrase, 
will  never  get  an  inkling  of  it  at  all.  With 
such  people,  goodness  is  a  thing  of  under 
standing,  more  than  of  feeling;  and  all 
their  morality  has  its  action  in  the  brain. 

God  forbid  that  I  should  sneer  at  this 
terrible  infirmity,  which  Providence  has' 
seen  fit  to  inflict :  God  forbid  too,  that  I 
should  not  be  grateful  to  the  same  kind 
Providence,  for  bestowing  upon  others 
among  his  creatures  a  more  genial  appre- 


y>  DREAM-LIFE. 

hension  of  true  goodness,  and  a  hearty 
sympathy  with  every  shade  of  human  kind 
ness. 

But  in  all  this,  I  am  not  making  out  a 
case  for  my  own  correct  teaching,  or  insin 
uating  the  propriety  of  my  tone.  I  shall 
leave  the  book  in  this  regard,  to  speak  for 
itself ;  and  whoever  feels  himself  growing 
worse  for  the  reading,  I  advise  to  lay  it 
down.  It  will  be  very  harmless  on  the 
shelf,  however  it  may  be  in  the  hand. 

I  shall  lay  no  claim  to  the  title  of  moral 
ist,  teacher,  or  romancist : — my  thoughts 
start  pleasant  pictures  to  my  mind ;  and  in 
a  garrulous  humor,  I  put  my  finger  in  the 
button-hole  of  my  indulgent  friend,  and 
tell  him  some  of  them, — giving  him  leave 
to  quit  me  whenever  he  chooses. 

Or,  if  a  lady  is  my  listener,  let  her  fancy 
me  only  an  honest,  simple-hearted  fellow, 
whose  familiarities  are  so  innocent  that 
she  can  pardon  them ; — taking  her  hand  in 
his,  and  talking  on  ; — sometimes  looking  in 
her  eyes,  and  then  looking  into  the  sun 
shine  for  relief; — sometimes  prosy  with 
narrative,  and  then  sharpening  up  my  mat 
ter  with  a  few  touches  of  honest  pathos ; 
• — let  her  imagine  this,  I  say,  and  we  may 
become  the  most  excellent  friends  in  the 
world. 


SPRING 

OR 

DREAMS   OF   BOYHOOD. 


(31) 


Dream  Life    » 


DREAMS  OF  BOYHOOD. 


SPRING. 

THE  old  chroniclers  made  the  year  begin 
in  the  season  of  frosts ;  and  they  have 
launched  us  upon  the  current  of  the 
months,  from  the  snowy  banks  of  January. 
I  love  better  to  count  time,  from  spring  to 
spring ;  it  seems  to  me  far  more  cheerful, 
to  reckon  the  year  by  blossoms,  than  by 
blight. 

Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  in  his  sweet 
story  of  Virginia,  makes  the  bloom  of  the 
cocoa-tree,  or  the  growth  of  the  banana,  a 
yearly  and  a  loved  monitor  of  the  passage 
of  her  life.  How  cold  and  cheerless  in  the 
comparison,  would  be  the  icy  chronology 

of  the  North; So  many  years  have  I 

seen  the  lakes  locked,  and  the  foliage  die ! 

The  budding  and  blooming  of   spring, 

seem  to  belong  properly  to  the  opening  of 

the  months.     It  is  the  season  of  the  quick- 

(33) 
B 


34  DREAM-LIFE. 

«st  expansion,  of  the  warmest  blood,  of 
the  readiest  growth ;  it  is  the  boy-age  of  the 
year.  The  birds  sing  in  chorus  in  the 
spring — just  as  children  prattle ;  the  brooks 
run  full — like  the  overflow  of  young  hearts  ; 
the  showers  drop  easily — as  young  tears 
flow ;  and  the  whole  sky  is  as  capricious  as 
the  mind  of  a  boy. 

Between  tears  and  smiles,  the  year,  like 
the  child,  struggles  into  the  warmth  of  life. 
The  old  year, — say  what  the  chronologists 
will, — lingers  upon  the  very  lap  of  spring ; 
and  is  only  fairly  gone,  when  the  blossoms 
of  April  have  strewn  their  pall  of  glory 
upon  his  tomb,  and  the  blue-birds  have 
chanted  his  requiem.  • 

It  always  seems  to  me  as  if  an  access  of 
life  came  with  the  melting  of  the  winter's 
snows ;  and  as  if  every  rootlet  of  grass 
that  lifted  its  first  green  blade  from  the 
matted  debris  of  the  old  year's  decay,  bore 
my  spirit  upon  it,  nearer  to  the  largess  of 
Heaven. 

I  love  to  trace  the  break  of  spring  step 
by  step  :  I  love  even  those  long  rain-storms 
that  sap  the  icy  fortresses  of  the  lingering 
winter, — that  melt  the  shows  upon  the 
hills,  and  swell  the  mountain-brooks  ; — that 
make  the  pools  heave  up  their  glassy  cere 
ments  of  ice,  and  hurry  down  the  crashing 
fragments  into  the  wastes  of  ocean. 


SPRING.  35 

1  love  the  gentle  thaws  that  you  can 
crace,  day  by  day,  by  the  stained  snow 
banks,  shrinking  from  the  grass ;  and>  by1 
the  gentle  drip  of  the  cottage-eaves!  I 
love  to  search  out  the  sunny  slopes  by  a 
southern  wall,  where  the  reflected  sun  does 
double  duty  to  the  earth,  and  where  the 
frail  anemone,  or  the  faint  blush  of  the 
arbutus,  in  the  midst  of  the  bleak  March 
atmosphere,  will  touch  your  heart,  like  a 
hope  of  Heaven,  in  a  field  of  graves !  Later 
come  those  soft,  smoky  days,  when  the 
patches  of  winter  grain  show  green  under 
the  shelter  of  leafless  woods,  and  the  last 
snow-drifts,  reduced  to  shrunken  skeletons 
of  ice,  lie  upon  the  slope  of  northern  hillss 
leaking  away  thefr  life. 

Then,  the  grass  at  your  door  grows  into 
the  color  of  the  sprouting  grain,  and  the 
buds  upon  the  lilacs  swell,  and  burst.  The 
peaches  bloom  upon  the  wall,  and  the 
plums  wear  bodices  of  white.  The  spark 
ling  oriole  picks  string  for  his  hammock  on 
the  sycamore,  and  the  sparrows  twitter  in 
pairs.  The  old  elms  throw  down  their 
dingy  flowers,  and  color  their  spray  with 
green ;  and  the  brooks,  where  you  throw 
your  worm  or  the  minnow,  float  down 
whole  fleets  of  the  crimson  blossoms  of 
the  maple.  Finally,  the  oaks  step  into  the 
opening  quadrille  of  spring,  with  greyish 


36  DREAM- LIFE. 

tufts  of  a  modest  verdure,  which,  by  and 
by,  will  be  long  and  glossy  leaves.  The 
flog-wood  pitches  his  broad,  white  tent,  in 
the  edge  of  the  forest ;  the  dandelions  lie 
along  the  hillocks,  like  stars  in  a  sky  of 
green;  and  the  wild  cherry,  growing  in  all 
the  hedge-rows,  without  other  culture  than 
God's,  lifts  up  to  Him,  thankfully,  its 
tremulous  white  fingers, 

Amid  all  this,  come  the  rich  rains  of 
spring.  The  affections  of  a  boy  grow  up 
with  tears  to  water  them;  and  the  year 
blooms  with  showers.  But  the  clouds  hover 
over  an  April  sky,  timidly — like  shadows 
upon  innocence.  The  showers  come  gently, 
and  drop  daintily  to  the  earth, — with  now 
and  then  a  glimpse  of  Sunshine  to  make 
the  drops  bright — like  so  many  tears  of 
joy. 

The  rain  of  winter  is  cold,  and  it  comes 
in  bitter  scuds  that  blind  you ;  but  the  rain 
of  April  steals  upon  you  coyly,  half  reluc 
tantly, — yet  lovingly — like  the  steps  of  a 
bride  to  the  Altar. 

It  does  not  gather  like  the  storm-clouds 
of  winter,  grey  and  heavy  along  the 
horizon,  and  creep  with  subtle  and  insensi 
ble  approaches  (like  age)  to  the  very  zenith  ; 
but  there  are  a  score  of  white-winged 
swimmers  afloat,  that  your  eye  has  chased, 
as  you  lay  fatigued  with  the  delicious  laiv 


SPRING.  37 

guor  of  an  April  sun ; — nor  have  you  scarce 
noticed  that  a  little  bevy  of  those  floating 
clouds  had  grouped  together  in  a  sombre 
company.  But  presently,  you  see  across 
the  fields,  the  dark  grey  streaks  stretching 
like  lines  of  mists,  from  the  green  bosom 
of  the  valley,  to  that  spot  of  sky  where  the 
company  of  clouds  is  loitering ;  and  with 
an  easy  shifting  of  the  helm,  the  fleet  of 
swimmers  come  drifting  over  you,  and  drop 
their  burden  into  the  dancing  pools,  and 
make  the  flowers  glisten,  and  the  eaves 
drip  with  their  crystal  bounty. 

The  cattle  linger  still,  cropping  the  new- 
come  grass ;  and  childhood  laughs  joyously 
at  the  warm  rain ; — or  under  the  cottage 
roof,  catches  with  eager  ear,  the  patter  of 
its  fall. 

And  with  that  patter  on  the  roof, — 

so  like  to  the  patter  of  childish  feet — my 
story  of  boyish  dreams  shall  begin. 


I. 

RAIN  IN  THE  GARRET. 

IT  is  an  old  garret  with  big,  brown  rafters ; 
and  the  boards  between  are  stained 
darkly  with  the  rain-storms  of  fifty 
years.  And  as  the  sportive  April  shower 
quickens  its  flood,  it  seems  as  if  its  torrents 
would  come  dashing  through  the  shingles, 
upon  you,  and  upon  your  play.  But  it  will 
not ;  for  you  know  that  the  old  roof  is 
strong ;  and  that  it  has  kept  you,  and  all 
that  love  you,  for  long  years  from  the  rain, 
.and  from  the  cold  :  you  know  that  the 
hardest  storms  of  winter  will  only  make  a 
little  oozing  leak,  that  trickles  down  the 
brown  stains, — like  tears. 

You  love  that  old  garret  roof ;  and  you 
nestle  down  under  its  slope,  with  a  sense 
of  its  protecting  power  that  no  castle  walls 
can  give  to  your  maturer  years.  Aye,  your 
heart  clings  in  boyhood  to  the  roof-tree  of 
the  old  family  garret,  with  a  grateful  affec 
tion,  and  an  earnest  confidence,  that  the 
(38) 


RAIN  IN  THE  GARRET.  y? 

after  years — whatever  may  be  their  suc 
cesses,  or  their  honors — can  never  re 
create.  Under  the  roof-tree  of  his  home, 
the  boy  feels  SAFE  :  and  where,  in  the 
whole  realm  of  life,  with  its  bitter  toils, 
and  its  bitterer  temptations,  will  he  feel 
safe  again  ? 

But  this  you  do  not  know.  It  seems 
only  a  grand  old  place ;  and  it  is  capital 
fun  to  search  in  its  corners,  and  drag  out 
some  bit  of  quaint  old  furniture,  with  a  leg 
broken,  and  lay  a  cushion  across  it,  and  fix 
your  reins  upon  the  lion's  claws  of  the  feet, 
and  then — gallop  away!  And  you  offer 
sister  Nelly  a  chance,  if  she  will  be  good ; 
and  throw  out  very  patronizing  words  to 
little  Charlie,  who  is  mounted  upon  a  much 
humbler  horse, — to  wit,  a  decrepid  nursery- 
chair, — as  he  of  right  should  be,  since  he  is 
three  years  your  junior. 

I  know  no  nobler  forage  ground  for  a 
romantic,  venturesome,  mischievous  boy, 
than  the  garret  of  an  old  family  mansion, 
on  a  day  of  storm.  It  is  a  perfect  field  of 
chivalry.  The  heavy  rafters,  the  dashing 
rain,  the  piles  of  spare  mattresses  to  carouse 
upon,  the  big  trunks  to  hide  in,  the  old 
white  coats  and  hats  hanging  in  obscure 
corners,  like  ghosts — are  great !  And  it 
is  so  far  away  from  the  old  lady,  who  keeps 
rule  in  the  nursery,  that  there  is  no  possi- 


40  DREAM  LIFE. 

ble  risk  of  a  scolding,  for  twisting  off  the 
fringe  of  the  rug.  There  is  no  baby  in  the 
garret  to  wake  up.  There  is  no  '  company ' 
in  the  garret  to  be  disturbed  by  the  noise. 
.There  is  no  crotchety  old  Uncle,  or  Grand- 
Ma,  with  their  everlasting—"  Boys — boys!" 
— and  then  a  look  of  such  horror ! 

There  is  great  fun  in  groping  through  a 
tall  barrel  of  books  and  pamphlets,  on  the 
look-out  for  startling  pictures ;  arid  there 
.are  chestnuts  in  the  garret,  drying,  which 
you  have  discovered  on  a  ledge  of  the 
chimney;  and  you  slide  a  few  into  your 
pocket,  and  munch  them  quietly, — giving 
now  and  then  one  to  Nelly,  and  begging 
her  to  keep  silent ; — for  you  have  a  great 
fear  of  its  being  forbidden  fruit. 

Old  family  garrets  have  their  stock,  as  I 
said,  of  cast-away  clothes,  of  twenty  years 
gone  by ;  and  it  is  rare  sport  to  put  them 
on ;  buttoning  in  a  pillow  or  two  for  the 
sake  of  good  fulness ;  and  then  to  trick  out 
Nelly  in  some  strange-shaped  head-gear, 
and  old-fashioned  brocade  petticoat  caught 
up  with  pins  ;  and  in  such  guise,  to  steal 
cautiously  down  stairs,  and  creep  slily  into 
the  sitting-room, — half  afraid  of  a  scolding, 
and  very  sure  of  good  fun  ; — trying  to  look 
very  sober,  and  yet  almost  ready  to  die 
with  the  laugh  that  you  know  you  will 
make.  And  your  mother  tries  to  look 


RAIN  IN  THE  GARRET.  41 

harshly  at  little  Neliy  for  putting  on  her 
grandmother's  best  bonnet ;  but-  Nelly's 
laughing  eyes  forbid  it  utterly ;  and  the 
mother  spoils  all  her  scolding  with  a  per 
fect  shower  of  kisses. 

After  this,  you  go  marching,  very  stately, 
Into  the  nursery ;  and  utterly  amaze  the 
old  nurse ;  and  make  a  deal  of  wonder 
ment  for  the  staring,  half-frightened  baby, 
who  drops  his  rattle,  and  makes  a  bob  at 
you,  as  if  he  would  jump  into  your  waist 
coat  pocket. 

But  you  grow  tired  of  this ;  you  tire 
even  of  the  swing,  and  of  the  pranks  of 
Charlie  ;  and  you  glide  away  into  a  corner, 
with  an  old,  dog's-eared  copy  of  Robinson 
Crusoe.  And  you  grow  heart  and  soul 
into  the  story,  until  you  tremble  for  the 
poor  fellow  with  his  guns,  behind  the  pali 
sade  ;  and  are  yourself  half  dead  with 
fright,  when  you  peep  cautiously  over  the 
hill  with  your  glass,  and  see  the  cannibals 
at  their  orgies  around  the  fire. 
.  Yet,  after  all,  you  think  the  old  fellow 
must  have  had  a  capital  time,  with  a  whole 
island  to  himself ;  and  you  think  you 
would  like  such  a  time  yourself,  if  only 
Nelly,  and  Charlie,  could  be  there  with  you. 
But  this  thought  does  not  come  till  after 
ward  ;  for  the  time,  you  are  nothing  but 
Crusoe;  you  are  living  in  his  cave  with 


42  DREAM-LIFE. 

Poll  the  parrot,  and  are  looking  out  for 
your  goats,  and  man  Friday. 

You  dream  what  a  nice  thing  it  would 
be,  for  you  to  slip  away  some  pleasant 
morning — not  to  York,  as  young  Crusoe 
did,  but  to  New  York,  — and  take  passage 
as  a  sailor ;  and  how,  if  they  knew  you 
were  going,  there  would  be  such  a  world  of 
good-byes  ;  and  how,  if  they  did  not  know 
it,  there  would  be  such  a  world  of  wonder ! 

And  then  the  sailor's  dress  would  be  alto 
gether  such  a  jaunty  affair ;  and  it  would  be 
such  rare  sport  to  lie  off  upon  the  yards 
far  aloft,  as  you  have  seen  sailors  in  pic 
tures,  looking  out  upon  the  blue  and  tum 
bling  sea.  No  thought  now  in  your  boyish 
dreams,  of  sleety  storms,  and  cables  stif 
fened  with  ice,  and  crashing  spars,  and 
great  ice-bergs  towering  fearfully  around 
you  ! 

You  would  have  better  luck  than  even- 
Crusoe;  you  would  save  a  compass,  and  a 
Bible,  and  stores  of  hatchets,  and  the  cap 
tain's  dog,  and  great  puncheons  of  sweet 
meats  (which  Crusoe  altogether  over 
looked);  and  you  would  save  a  tent  or  two, 
which  you  could  set  up  on  the  shore,  and 
an  American  flag,  and  a  small  piece  of 
cannon,  which  you  could  fire  as  often  as 
you  liked.  At  night,  you  would  sleep  in  a 
tree — though  you  wonder  how  Crusoe  did 


RAIN  IN  THE  GARRET.  43 

it, — and  would  say  the  prayers  you  had 
been  taught  to  say  at  home,  and  fall  to 
sleep, — dreaming  of  Nelly  and  Charlie. 

At  sunrise,  or  thereabouts,  you  would 
come  down,  feeling  very  much  refreshed ; 
and  make  a  very  nice  breakfast  off  of 
smoked  herring  and  sea-bread,  with  a  little 
currant  jam,  and  a  few  oranges.  After 
this  you  would  haul  ashore  a  chest  or  two 
of  the  sailor's  clothes,  and  putting  a  few 
large  jack-knives  in  your  pocket,  would 
take  a  stroll  over  the  island,  and  dig  a  cave 
somewhere,  and  roll  in  a  cask  or  two  of  sea- 
bread.  And  you  fancy  yourself  growing 
after  a  time  very  tall  and  corpulent, 
and  wearing  a  magnificent  goat-skin  cap, 
trimmed  with  green  ribbons,  and  set  off 
with  a  plume.  You  think  you  would  have 
put  a  few  more  guns  in  the  palisades  than 
Crusoe  did,  and  charged  them  with  a  little 
more  grape. 

After  a  long  while,  you  fancy  a  ship 
would  arrive,  which  would  carry  you  back  ; 
and  you  count  upon  very  great  surprise  on 
the  part  of  your  father,  and  little  Nelly,  as 
you  march  up  to  the  door  of  the  old  family 
mansion,  with  plenty  of  gold  in  your  pocket, 
and  a  small  bag  of  cocoanuts  for  Charlie, 
and  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasant  talk,  about 
your  island,  far  away  in  the  South  Seas. 

Or,  perhaps  it  is  not  Crusoe  at  all, 


44  DREAM-LIFE. 

that  your  eyes  and  your  heart  cling  to,  but 
only  some  little  story  about  Paul  and  Vir 
ginia  ; — that  dear  little  Virginia  !  how  many 
tears  have  been  shed  over  her — not  in  gar 
rets  only,  or  by  boys  only ! 

You  would  have  liked  Virginia — you. 
know  you  would ;  but  you  perfectly  hate 
the  beldame  aunt,  who  sent  for  her  to  come 
to  France ;  you  think  she  must  have  been 
like  the  old  school-mistress,  who  occasion 
ally  boxes  your  ears  with  the  cover  of  the 
spelling-book,  or  makes  you  wear  one  of 
the  girl's  bonnets,  that  smells  strcngly  of 
pasteboard,  and  calico. 

As  for  black  Domingue,  you  think  he 
was  a  capital  old  fellow  ;  and  you  think  more 
of  him,  and  his  bananas,  than  you  do  of 
the  bursting,  throbbing  heart  of  poor  Paul. 
As  yet,  Dream-life  does  not  take  hold  on 
love.  A  little  maturity  of  heart  is  wanted, 
to  make  up  what  the  poets  call  sensibility. 
If  love  should  come  to  be  a  dangerous, 
chivalric  matter,  as  in  the  case  of  Helen 
Mar  and  Wallace,  you  can  very  easily  con~ 
ceive  of  it,  and  can  take  hold  of  all  the  little 
accessories  of  male  costume,  and  embroid 
ering  of  banners ;  but  as  for  pure  senti- 1 
ment,  such  as  lies  in  the  sweet  story  of 
Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre,  it  is  quite  beyond 
you. 

The  rich,  soft  nights,  in  which  one  might 


RAIN  IN  THE  GARRET.  45 

doze  in  his  hammock,  watching  the  play  of 
the  silvery  moonbeams  upon  the  orange 
leaves,  and  upon  the  waves,  you  can  under 
stand  ;  and  you  fall  to  dreaming  of  that 
lovely  Isle  of  France  ;  and  wondering  if 
Virginia  did  not  perhaps  have  some  rela 
tions  on  the  island,  who  raise  pine-apples, 
and  such  sort  of  things,  still  ? 

• And  so,  with  your  head  upon  your 

hand,  in  your  quiet  garret  corner,  over  some 
such  beguiling  story,  your  thought  leans 
away  from  the  book,  into  your  own  dreamy 
cruise  c  ver  the  sea  of  life. 


II. 

SCHOOL  DREAMS. 

IT  's  a  proud  thing  to  go  out  from  undo 
the  realm  of  a  school-mistress,  and  to 
be  enrolled  in  a  company  of  boys  who 
are  under  the  guidance  of  a  master.  It  is 
one  of  the  earliest  steps  of  worldly  pride, 
which  has  before  it  a  long  and  tedious  lad 
der  of  ascent.  Even  the  advice  ot  the  old 
mistress,  and  the  nine-penny  book  that  she 
thrusts  into  your  hand  as  a  parting  gift, 
pass  for  nothing ;  and  her  kiss  of  adieu,  if 
she  tenders  it  in  the  sight  of  your  fellows, 
will  call  up  an  angry  rush  of  blood  to  the 
cheek,  that  for  long  years,  shall  drown  all 
sense  of  its  kindness. 

You  have  looked  admiringly  many  a  day 
upon  the  tall  fellows  who  play  at  the  door 
of  Dr.  Bidlow's  school :  you  have  looked 
with  reverence,  second  only  to  that  felt  for 
the  old  village  church,  upon  its  dark-looking 
heavy  brick  walls.  It  seemed  to  be  redo 
lent  of  learning ;  and  stopping  at  times,  to 
(46) 


SCHOOL  DREAMS.  47 

gaze  upon  the  gallipots  and  broken  retorts, 
at  the  second  story  window,  you  have  pon 
dered,  in  your  boyish  way,  upon  the  inscru 
table  wonders  of  Science,  and  the  ineffable 
<;  dignity  of  Dr.  Bidlow's  brick  school ! 

Dr.  Bidlow  seems  to  you  to  belong  to  a 
race  of  giants ;  and  yet  he  is  a  spare,  thin 
man,  with  a  hooked  nose,  a  large,  flat,  gold 
watch-key,  a  crack  in  his  voice,  a  wig,,  and 
very  dirty  wristbands.  Still  you  stand  in 
awe  at  the  mere  sight  of  him  ; — an  awe  that 
is  very  much  encouraged  by  a  report  made 
to  you  by  a  small  boy,— that  "Old  Bid" 
keeps  a  large  ebony  ruler  in  his  desk.  You 
are  amazed  at  the  small  boy's  audacity:  it 
astonishes  you  that  any  one  who  had  ever 
smelt  the  strong  fumes  of  sulphur  and 
ether  in  the  Doctor's  room,  and  had  seen 
him  turn  red  vinegar  blue,  (as  they  say  he 
does)  should  call  him  "  Old  Bid  !  " 

You,  however,  come  very  little  under  his 
control :  you  enter  upon  the  proud  life,  in 
the  small  boy's  department, — under  the 
dominion  of  the  English  master.  He  is  a 
different  personage  from  Dr.  Bidlow :  he  is 
a  dapper,  little  man,  who  twinkles  his  eye 
in  a  peculiar  fashion,  and  who  has  a  way  of 
marching  about  the  school-room  with  his 
hands  crossed  behind  him,  giving  a  playful 
^drt  to  his  coat-tails.  He  wears  a  pen  tucked 
behind  his  ear :  his  hair  is  carefully  set  up 


48  DREAM-LIFE. 

at  the  sides,  and  upon  the  top,  to  conceal 
(as  you  think  later  in  life)  his  diminutive 
height ;  and  he  steps  very  springily  around 
behind  the  benches,  glancing  now  and  then 
at  the  books, — cautioning  one  scholar  about  - 
his  dogs-ears,  and  startling  another  from  ai 
doze,  by  a  very  loud  and  odious  snap  of  his 
forefinger  upon  the  boy's  head. 

At  other  times,  he  sticks  a  hand  in  the 
armlet  of  his  waistcoat :  he  brandishes  in 
the  other  a  thickish  bit  of  smooth  cherry- 
wood, — sometimes  dressing  his  hair  withal ; 
and  again,  giving  his  head  a  slight  scratch 
behind  the  ear,  while  he  takes  occasion  at 
the  same  time,  for  an  oblique  glance  at  a 
fat  boy  in  the  corner,  who  is  reaching  down 
from  his  seat  after  a  little  paper  pellet,  that 
has  just  been  discharged  at  him  from  some 
unknown  quarter.  The  master  steals  very 
cautiously  and  quickly  to  the  rear  of  the 
stooping  boy, — dreadfully  exposed  by  his 
unfortunate  position, — and  inflicts  a  sting 
ing  blow.  A  weak-eyed  little  scholar  on 
the  next  bench  ventures  a  modest  titter; 
at  which  the  assistant  makes  a  significant 
motion  with  his  ruler — on  the  seat,  as  it 
were,  of  an  imaginary  pair  of  pantaloons,  — 
which  renders  the  weak-eyed  boy  on  a 
sudden,  very  insensible  to  the  recent  joke. 

You,  meantime,  profess  to  be  very  much 
engrossed  with  your  grammar — turned  up- 


DREAMS.  49 

side  down  :  you  think  it  must  have  hurt ; 
and  are  only  sorry  that  it  did  not  happen 
to  a  tall,  dark-faced  boy  who  cheated  you 
in  a  swop  of  jack-knives.  You  innocently 
think  that  he  must  be  a  very  bad  boy ;  and 
fancy-  aided  by  a  suggestion  of  the  old 
nurse  at  home,  on  the  same  point, — that  he 
will  one  day  come  to  the  gallows. 

There  is  a  platform  on  one  side  of  the 
school-room,  where  the  teacher  sits  at  a 
little  red  table,  and  they  have  a  tradition 
among  the  boys,  that  a  pin  properly  bent, 
was  one  day  put  into  the  chair  of  the 
English  master,  and  that  he  did  not  wear 
his  hand  in  the  armlet  of  his  waistcoat,  for 
two  whole  days  thereafter.  Yet  his  air  of 
dignity  seems  proper  enough  in  a  man  of 
such  erudition,  and  such  grasp  of  imagina 
tion,  as  he  must  possess.  Per  he  can 
quote  poetry, — some  of  the  big  scholars 
have  heard  him  do  it : — he  can  parse  the 
whole  of  Paradise  Lost ;  and  he  can  cipher 
in  Long  Division,  and  the  Rule  of  Three, 
as  if  it  was  all  Simple  Addition ;  and  then 
— such  a  hand  as  he  writes,  and  such  a 
superb  capital  B  !  It  is  hard  to  understand 
how  he  does  it. 

Sometimes,  lifting  the  lid  of  your  desk, 
where  you  pretend  to  be  very'  busy  with 
your  papers,  you  steal  the  reading  of  some 
brief  passage  of  Lazy  Lawrence,  or  oi  the 


50  DREAM-LIFE. 

Hungarian  Brothers,  and  muse  about  it  for 
hours  afterward  to  the  great  detriment  of 
your  ciphering  ;  or,  deeply  lost  in  the  story 
of  the  Scottish  Chiefs,  you  fall  to  compar 
ing  such  villains  as  Monteith  with  the 
stout  boys  who  tease  you ;  and  you  only 
wish  they  could  come  within  reach  of  the 
fierce  Kirkpatrick's  claymore. 

But  you  are  frighted  out  of  this  stolen 
reading  by  a  circumstance  that  stirs  your 
young  blood  very  strangely.  The  master  is 
looking  very  sourly  on  a  certain  morning, 
and  has  caught  sight  of  the  little  weak-eyed 
boy  over  beyond  you,  reading  Roderick 
Random.  He  sends  out  for  a  long  birch 
rod,  and  having  trimmed  off  the  leaves 
carefully, — with  a  glance  or  two  in  your 
direction, — he  marches  up  behind  the  bench 
of  the  poor  culprit, — who  turns  deathly 
pale, — grapples  him  by  the  collar,  drags  him 
out  over  the  desks,  his  limbs  dangling  in  a 
shocking  way  against  the  sharp  angles,  and 
having  him  fairly  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
clinches  his  rod  with  a  new,  and,  as  it  seems 
to  you,  a  very  sportive  grip. 

You  shudder  fearfully. 

"Please  don't  whip  me,"  says  the  boy 
whimpering. 

"Aha!"  says  the  smirking  pedagogue, 
bringing  down  the  stick  with  a  quick,  sharp 
cut, — "you  don't  like  it,  eh  ?  " 


SCHOOL  DREAMS.  51 

The  poor  fellow  screams,  and  struggles 
to  escape ;  but  the  blows  come  faster  and 
thicker.  The  blood  tingles  in  your  finger 
ends  with  indignation. 

"  Please  don't  strike  me  again,"  says  the 
boy  sobbing  and  taking  breath,  as  he 
writhes  about  the  legs  of  the  master; — "  I 
won't  read  another  time." 

"  Ah,  you  won't,  sir — won't  you  ?  I  don't 
mean  you  shall,  sir,"  and  the  blows  fall  thick 
and  fast, — until  the  poor  fellow  crawls  back, 
utterly  crest-fallen  and  heart-sick,  to  sob 
over  his  books. 

You  grow  into  a  sudden  boldness  :  you 
wish  you  were  only  large  enough  to  beat 
the  master :  you  know  such  treatment 
would  make  you  miserable  :  you  shudder  at 
the  thought  of  it :  you  do  not  believe  he 
would  dare :  you  know  the  other  boy  has 
got  no  father.  This  seems  to  throw  a  new 
light  upon  the  matter,  but  it  only  intensifies 
your  indignation.  You  are  sure  that  no 
father  would  suffer  it;  or  if  you  thought  so, 
it  would  sadly  weaken  your  love  for  him. 
You  pray  Heaven  that  it  may  never  be 
brought  to  such  proof. 

Let  a  boy  once  distrust  the  love  or 

the  tenderness  of  his  parents,  and  the  last 
resort  of  his  yearning  affections — so  far  as 
the  world  goes — is  utterly  gone.  He  is  in 
the  sure  road  to  a  bitter  fate.  His  heart 


52  DREAM-LIFE. 

will  take  on  a  hard  iron  covering,  that  will 
flash  out  plenty  of  fire  in  his  after  contact 
with  the  world,  but  it  will  never — never 
melt! 

There  are  some  tall  trees  that  over 
shadow  an  angle  of  the  school-house  ;  and 
the  larger  scholars  play  some  very  surprising 
gymnastic  tricks  upon  their  lower  limbs; 
one  boy  for  instance,  will  hang  for  an  in 
credible  length  of  time  by  his  feet,  with  his 
head  down  ;  and  when  you  tell  Charlie  of 
it  at  night,  with  such  additions  as  your  boy 
ish  imagination  can  contrive,  the  old  nurse 
is  shocked,  and  states  very  gravely  that  it 
is  dangerous  ;  and  that  the  blood  all  runs 
to  the  head,  and  sometimes  bursts  out  of  the 
eyes  and  mouth.  You  look  at  that  partic 
ular  boy  with  astonishment  afterward  ;  and 
expect  to  see  him  some  day  burst  into 
bleeding  from  the  nose  and  ears,  and  flood 
the  school-room  benches. 

In  time,  however,  you  get  to  performing 
some  modest  experiments  yourself  upon 
the  very  lowest  limbs, — taking  care  tc 
avoid  the  observation  of  the  larger  boys, 
who  else  might  laugh  at  you :  you  espe 
cially  avoid  the  notice  of  one  stout  fellow  in 
pea-green  breeches,  who  is  a  sort  of  '  bully ' 
among  the  small  boys,  and  who  delights  in 
kicking  your  marbles  about,  very  accident 
ally.  He  has  a  fashion  too  of  twisting  his 


SCHOOL  DREAMS.  53 

handkerchief  into  what  he  calls  a  '  snapper,' 
with  a  knot  at  the  end,  and  cracking  at  you 
with  it,  very  much  to  the  irritation  of  your 
spirits,  and  of  your  legs. 

Sometimes,  when  he  has  brought  you  to 
an  angry  burst  of  tears,  he  will  very  gra 
ciously  force  upon  you  the  handkerchief, 
and  insist  upon  your  cracking  him  in  re 
turn  ;  which,  as  you  know  nothing  about 
his  effective  method  of  making  the  knot 
bite,  is  a  very  harmless  proposal  on  his 
part. 

But  you  have  still  stronger  reason  to  re 
member  that  boy.  There  are  trees,  as  I 
said,  near  the  school ;  and  you  get  the  rep 
utation  after  a  time  of  a  good  climber.  One 
day  you  are  well  in  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
and  being  dared  by  the  boys  below,  you 
venture  higher — higher  than  any  boy  has 
ever  gone  before.  You  feel  very  proudly  ; 
but  just  then  catch  sight  of  the  sneering 
face  of  your  old  enemy  of  the  snapper  ;  and 
he  dares  you  to  go  upon  a  limb  that  he 
points  out. 

The  rest  say, — for  you  hear  them  plainly 
— "  It  won't  bear  him."  And  Frank,  a 
great  friend  of  yours,  shouts  loudly  to  you, 
— not  to  try. 

"  Pho,"  says  your  tormentor, —  "the  little 
coward !" 

If  you  could  whip  him,  you  would  go 


54  DREAM-LIFE. 

down  the  tree  and  do  it  willingly  :  as  it  is, 
you  cannot  let  him  triumph :  so  you  ad 
vance  cautiously  out  upon  the  limb :  it 
bends  and  sways  fearfully  with  your  weight : 
presently  it  cracks  :  you  try  to  return,  but 
it  is  too  late  :  you  feel  yourself  going : — • 
your  mind  flashes  home — over  your  life — 
your  hope — your  fate,  like  lightning :  then 
comes  a  sense  of  dizziness, —  a  succession 
of  quick  blows,  and  a  dull,  heavy  crash  ! 

You  are  conscious  of  nothing  again,  until 
you  find  yourself  in  the  great  hall  of  the 
school,  covered  with  blood,  the  old  Doctor 
standing  over  you  with  a  phial,  and  Frank 
kneeling  by  you,  and  holding  your  shattered 
arm,  which  has  been  broken  by  the  fall. 

After  this,  come  those  long,  weary  days 
of  confinement,  when  you  lie  still,  through 
all  the  hours  of  noon,  looking  out  upon  the 
cheerful  sunshine,  only  through  the  win 
dows  of  your  little  room.  Yet  it  seems  a 
grand  thing  to  have  the  whole  household 
attendant  upon  you.  The  doors  are  opened 
and  shut  softly,  and  they  all  step  noiselessly 
about  your  chamber ;  and  when  you  groan 
with  pain,  you  are  sure  of  meeting  sad,  sym 
pathizing  looks.  Your  mother  will  step 
fently  to  your  side  and  lay  her  cool,  white 
and  upon  your  forehead  ;  and  little  Nelly 
will  gaze  at  you  from  the  foot  of  your  bed 
with  a  sad  earnestness,  and  with  tears  of 


SCHOOL  DREAMS.  55 

pity  in  her  soft  hazel  eyes.  And  afterward, 
as  your  pain  passes  away,  she  will  bring  you 
her  prettiest  books,  and  fresh  flowers,  and 
whatever  she  knows  you  will  love. 

But  it  is  dreadful,  when  you  wake  at 
night,  from  your  feverish  slumber,  and  see 
nothing  but  the  spectral  shadows  that  the 
sick-lamp  upon  the  hearth  throws  aslant  the 
walls  ;  and  hear  nothing  but  the  heavy 
breathing  of  the  old  nurse  in  the  easy  chair, 
and  the  ticking  of  the  clock  upon  the  man 
tel  !  Then,  silence  and  the  night  crowd 
upon  your  soul  drearily.  But  your  thought 
is  active.  It  shapes  at  your  bed-side  the 
loved  figure  of  your  mother,  or  it  calls  up 
the  whole  company  of  Dr.  Bidlow's  boys ; 
and  weeks  of  study  or  of  play,  group  like 
magic  on  your  quickened  vision  : — then,  a 
twinge  of  pain  will  call  again  the  dreari 
ness,  and  your  head  tosses  upon  the  pillow, 
and  your  eye  searches  the  gloom  vainly  for 
pleasant  faces ;  and  your  fears  brood  on 
that  drearier,  coming  night  of  Death — far 
longer,  and  far  more  cheerless  than  this. 

But  even  here,  the  memory  of  some  little 
prayer  you  have  been  taught,  which  prom 
ises  a  Morning  after  the  Night,  comes  to 
your  throbbing  brain  ;  and  its  murmur  on 
your  fevered  lips,  as  you  breathe  it,  soothes 
like  a  caress  of  angels,  and  wooes  you  to 
smiles  and  sleep. 

As  the  days  pass,  you  grow  stronger ; 


SS  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  Frank  comes  in  to  tell  you  of  the 
school,  and  that  your  old  tormentor  has 
been  expelled  :  and  you  grow  into  a  strong 
friendship  with  Frank,  and  you  think  of 
yourselves  as  a  new  Damon  and  Pythias — 
and  that  you  will  some  day  live  together  in 
a  fine  house,  with  plenty  of  horses,  and 
plenty  of  chestnut  trees.  Alas,  the  boy 
counts  little  on  those  later  and  bitter  fates 
of  life,  which  sever  his  early  friendships, 
like  wisps  of  straw  ! 

At  other  times,  with  your  eye  upon  the 
sleek,  trim  figure  of  the  Doctor,  and  upon 
his  huge  bunch  of  watch  seals,  you  think 
you  will  some  day  be  a  Doctor ;  and  that 
with  a  wife  and  children,  and  a  respectable 
gig,  and  gold  watch,  with  seals  to  match, 
you  would  needs  be  a  very  happy  fellow. 

And  with  such  fancies  drifting  on  your 
thought,  you  count  for  the  hundredth  time 
the  figures  upon  the  curtains  of  your  bed, 
— you  trace  out  the  flower  wreaths  upon 
the  paper-hangings  of  your  room  ; — your 
eyes  rest  idly  on  the  cat  playing  with  the 
fringe  of  the  curtain ; — you  see  your  mother 
sitting  with  her  needle-work  beside  the  fire; 
— you  watch  the  sunbeams  as  they  drift 
along  the  carpet,  from  morning  until  noon; 
and  from  noon  till  night,  you  watch  them 
playing  on  the  leaves,  and  dropping  span 
gles  on  the  lawn ;  and  as  you  watch — you 
dream. 


III. 

BOY  SENTIMENT. 

WEEKS,  and  even  years  of  your  boy 
hood  roll  on,  in  the  which   your 
dreams    are    growing    wider    and 
grander, — even  as  the  Spring,  which  I  have 
made  the  type  of  the  boy-age,  is  stretching 
its  foliage  farther  and  farther,  and  drop- 

Eing  longer  and  heavier  shadows  on  the 
md. 

Nelly,  that  sweet  sister,  has  grown  into 
your  heart  strangely ;  and  you  think  that 
all  they  write  in  their  books  about  love, 
cannot  equal  your  fondness  for  little  Nelly. 
She  is  pretty,  they  say ;  but  what  do  you 
care  for  her  prettiness  ?  She  is  so  good, 
so  kind — so  watchful  of  all  your  wants,  so 
willing  to  yield  to  your  haughty  claims ! 

But,  alas,  it  is  only  when  this  sisterly 
love  is  lost  forever, — only  when  the  inexor 
able  world  separates  a  family  and  tosses  it 
upon  the  waves  of  fate  to  wide-lying  dis 
tances — perhaps  to  graves! — that  a  man 
(37) 


58  DREAM-LIFE. 

feels,  what  a  boy  can  never  know, — the  dis 
interested  and  abiding  affection  of  a  sister. 

All  this,  that  I  have  set  down,  comes 
back  to  you  long  afterward,  when  you  recal 
with  tears  of  regret,  your  reproachful 
words,  or  some  swift  outbreak  of  passion. 

Little  Madge  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's — a 
mischievous,  blue-eyed  hoyden.  They 
tease  you  about  Madge.  You  do  not  of 
course  care  one  straw  for  her,  but  yet  it  is 
rather  pleasant  to  be  teased  thus.  Nelly 
never  does  this  ;  oh  no,  not  she.  I  do  not 
know  but  in  the  age  of  childhood,  the 
sister  is  jealous  of  the  affections  of  a 
brother,  and  would  keep  his  heart  wholly 
at  home,  until  suddenly,  and  strangely,  she 
finds  her  own — wandering. 

But  after  all,  Madge  is  pretty  ;  and  there 
is  something  taking  in  her  name.  Old 
people,  and  very  precise  people,  call  her 
Margaret  Boyne.  But  you  do  not :  it  is 
only  plain  Madge  ; — it  sounds  like  her — 
very  rapid  and  mischievous.  It  would  be 
the  most  absurd  thing  in  the  world  for  you 
to  like  her,  for  she  teases  you  in  innumer 
able  ways :  she  laughs  at  your  big  shoes ; 
(such  a  sweet  little  foot  as  she  has !)  and  she 
pins  strips  of  paper  on  your  coat  collar; 
and  time  and  again  she  has  worn  off  your 
hat  in  triumph,  very  well  knowing  that 
you,  such  a  quiet  body,  and  so  much 


BOY  SENTIMENT.  59 

afraid  of  her,  will  never  venture  upon  any 
liberties  with  her  gipsy  bonnet. 

You  sometimes  wish,  in  your  vexation, 
as  you  see  her  running,  that  she  would  fall 
and*  hurt  herself  badly ;  but  the  next 
moment,  it  seems  a  very  wicked  wish,  and 
you  renounce  it.  Once,  she  did  come  very 
near  it.  You  were  all  playing  together  by 
the  big  swing — (how  plainly  it  swings  in 
your  memory  now !) — Madge  had  the  seat, 
and  you  were  famous  for  running  under 
with  a  long  push,  which  Madge  liked  better 
than  anything  else  :  well,  you  have  half  run 
over  the  ground,  when  crash  comes  the 
swing,  and  poor  Madge  with  it !  You  fairly 
scream  as  you  catch  her  up.  But  she  is 
not  hurt — only  a  cry  of  fright,  and  a  little 
sprain  of  that  fairy  ancle ;  and  as  she 
brushes  away  the  tears,  and  those  flaxen 
curls,  and  breaks  into  a  merry  laugh, — half 
at  your  woe-worn  face,  and  half  in  vexation 
at  herself;  and  leans  her  hand  (such  a 
hand !)  upon  your  shoulder,  to  limp  away 
into  the  shade,  you  dream — your  first 
dream  of  love. 

But  it  is  only  a  dream,  not  at  all 
acknowledged  by  you  :  she  is  three  or  four 
years  your  junior, — too  young  altogether. 
It  is  very  absurd  to  talk  about  it.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  said  of  Madge — only — 
Madsre  !  The  name  does  it. 


60  DREAM-LIFE. 

It  is  rather  a  pretty  name  to  write.  You 
are  fond  of  making  capital  M's;  and  some 
times  you  follow  it  with  a  capital  A.  Then 
you  practise  a  little  upon  a  D,  and  perhaps 
back  it  up  with  a  G.  Of  course  it  is*  the 
merest  accident  that  these  letters  come  to 
gether.  It  seems  funny  to  you — very.  And 
as  a  proof  that  they  are  made  at  random, 
you  make  a  T  or  an  R  before  them,  and 
some  other  quite  irrelevant  letters  after  it. 

Finally,  as  a  sort  of  security  against  all 
suspicion,  you  cross  it  out — cross  it  a  great 
many  ways ; — even  holding  it  up  to  the 
light,  to  see  that  there  should  be  no  air  of 
intention  about  it. 

You  need   have   no  fear,  Clarence, 

that  your  hieroglyphics  will  be  studied  so 
closely.  Accidental  as  they  are,  you  are 
very  much  more  interested  in  them  than 
any  one  else  ! 

It  is  a  common  fallacy  of  this  dream 

in  most  stages  of  life,  that  a  vast  number 
of  persons  employ  their  time  chiefly  in  spy 
ing  out  its  operations. 

Yet  Madge  cares  nothing  about  you,  that 
you  know  of.  Perhaps  it  is  the  very  rea 
son,  though  you  do  not  suspect  it  then,  why 
you  care  so  much  for  her.  At  any  rate, 
she  is  a  friend  of  Nelly's;  and  it  is  your 
duty  not  to  dislike  her.  Nelly  too,  sweet 
Nelly,  gets  an  inkling  of  matters  ;  for  sis- 


BOY  SENTIMENT.  61 

ters  are  very  shrewd  in  suspicions  of  this 
sort — shrewder  than  brothers  or  fathers ; 
and  like  the  good  kind  girl  that  she  is,  she 
wishes  to  humor  even  your  weakness. 

Madge    drops    into    tea    quite    often: 
Nelly  has  something  in  particular  to  show, 
her,  two  or  three  times  a  week.    Good  Nelly,  i 
— perhaps  she  is  making  your  troubles  all  j 
the  greater!     You  gather  large  bunches  ot 
grapes  for  Madge — because  she  is  a  friend 
of  Nelly's — which  she  doesn't  want  at  all, 
and  very  pretty  bouquets,  which  she  either 
drops,'  or  pulls  to  pieces. 

In  the  presence  of  your  father  one  day, 
you  drop  some  hint  about  Madge,  in  a  very 
careless  way — a  way  shrewdly  calculated  to 
lay  all  suspicion ; — at  which  your  father 
laughs.  This  is  odd  :  it  makes  you  wonder 
if  your  father  was  ever  in  love  himself. 

You  rather  think  that  he  has  been. 

Madge's  father  is  dead  and  her  mother  is 
poor ;  and  you  sometimes  dream,  how- 
whatever  your  father  may  think  or  f  eel— 
you  will  some  day  make  a  large  fortune,  in 
some  very  easy  way,  and  build  a  snug  cot 
tage, -and  have  one  horse  for  your  carriage, 
and  one  for  your  wife,  (not  Madge,  of  course 
— that  is  absurd)  and  a  turtle  shell  cat  for 
your  wife's  mother,  and  a  pretty  gate  to  the 
front  yard,  and  plenty  of  shrubbery,  and 
how  your  wife  will  come  dancing  down  the 


63  DREAM-LIFE. 

path  to  meet  you, — as  the  Wife  does  in  Mr. 
Irving's  Sketch  Book, — and  how  she  will 
have  a  harp  inside,  and  will  wear  white 
dresses,  with  a  blue  sash. 

Poor  Clarence,  it  never  once  occurs 

to  you,  that  even  Madge  may  grow  fat,  and 
wear  check  aprons,  and  snuffy-brown 
•  dresses  of  woollen  stuff,  and  twist  her  hair 
in  yellow  papers !  Oh  no,  boyhood  has  no 
such  dreams  as  that ! 

I  shall  leave  you  here  in  the  middle  of 
your  first  foray  into  the  world  of  sentiment, 
with  those  wicked  blue  eyes  chasing  rain 
bows  over  your  heart,  and  those  little  feet 
walking  every  day  into  your  affections.  I 
shall  leave  you  before  the  affair  has  ripened 
into  any  overtures,  and  while  there  is  only 
a  sixpence  split  in  halves,  and  tied  about 
your  neck,  and  Maggie's  neck,  to  bind  your 
destinies  together. 

If  I  even  hinted  at  any  probability  of 
your  marrying  her,  or  of  your  not  marrying 
ner,  you  would  be  very  likely  to  dispute  me, 
One  knows  his  own  feelings,  or  thinks  he 
does,  so  much  better  than  any  one  can  tell 
(him! 


IV. 

A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST. 

TO  visit,  is  a  great  thing  in  the  boy 
calendar: — not  to  visit  this  or  that 
neighbor, — to  drink  tea,  or  eat  straw 
berries,  or  play  at  draughts; — but,  to  go 
away  on  a  visit  in  a  coach,  with  a  trunk, 
and  a  great-coat,  and  an  umbrella : — this  is 
large ! 

It  makes  no  difference,  that  they  wish  to 
be  rid  of  your  noise,  now  that  Charlie  is 
sick  of  a  fever : — the  reason  is  not  at  all  in 
the  way  of  your  pride  of  visiting.  You 
are  to  have  a  long  ride  in  a  coach,  and  eat 
a  dinner  at  a  tavern,  and  to  see  a  new  town 
almost  as  large  as  the  one  you  live  in,  and 
you  are  to  make  new  acquaintances.  In 
short,  you  are  to  see  the  world  : — a  very 
proud  thing  it  is,  to  see  the  world  ! 

As  you  journey  on,  after  bidding  your 
friends  adieu,  and  as  you  see  fences  and 
houses  to  which  you  have  not  been  used, 
you  think  them  very  odd  indeed :  but  it 

(63) 


64  DREAM-LIFE. 

occurs  to  you,  that  the  geographies  speak  of 
very  various  national  characteristics,  and 
you  are  greatly  gratified  with  this  opportu 
nity  of  verifying  your  study.  You  see  new 
crops  too,  perhaps  a  broad-leaved  tobacco 
field,  which  reminds  you  pleasantly  of  the 
luxuriant  vegetation  of  the  tropics,  spoken 
of  by  Peter  Parley,  and  others. 

As  for  the  houses  and  barns  in  the  new 
town,  they  quite  startle  you  with  their 
strangeness  :  you  observe  that  some  of  the 
latter  instead  of  having  one  stable  door, 
have  five  or  six,  a  fact  which  puzzles  you 
very  much  indeed.  You  observe  farther, 
that  the  houses  many  of  them  have  balus 
trades  upon  the  top,  which  seems  to  you  a 
Very  wonderful  adaptation  to  the  wants  of 
boys,  who  wish  to  fly  kites,  or  to  play  upon 
the  roof.  You  notice  with  special  favor, 
one  very  low  roof  which  you  might  climb 
upon  by  a  mere  plank,  and  you  think  the 
boys,  whose  father  lives  in  that  house,  are 
very  fortunate  boys. 

Your  old  aunt,  whom  you  visit,  you  think 
wears  a  very  queer  cap,  being  altogether 
different  from  that  of  the  old  nurse,  or  of 
Mrs.  Boyne, — Madge's  mother.  As  for  the 
house  she  lives  in,  it  is  quite  wonderful. 
There  are  such  an  immense  number  of 
closets,  and  closets  within  closets,  remind 
ing  you  of  the  mysteries  of  Rinaldo  Ri« 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  fiRlEND  LOST.    65 

naldini.  Beside  which,  there  are  immensely 
curious  bits  of  old  furniture — so  black  and 
heavy,  and  with  such  curious  carving  ! — and 
you  think  of  the  old  wainscot  in  the 
Children  of  the  Abbey.  You  think  you 
will  never  tire  of  rambling  about  in  its  odd 
corners,  and  of  what  glorious  stories  you 
will  have  to  tell  of  it,  when  you  go  back 
to  Nelly,  and  Charlie.  • 

As  for  acquaintances,  you  fall  in  the  very 
first  day  with  a  tall  boy  next  door,  called 
Nat.  which  seems  an  extraordinary  name. 
Besides,  he  has  travelled  ;  and  as  he  sits 
with  you  on  the  summer  nights  under 
the  linden  trees,  he  tells  you  gorgeous 
stories  of  the  things  he  has  seen.  He  has 
made  the  voyage  to  London  ;  and  he  talks 
about  the  ship  (a  real  ship)  and  starboard 
and  larboard,  and  the  spanker,  in  a  way  quite 
surprising ;  and  he  takes  the  stern  oar,  in 
the  little  skiff  when  you  row  off  in  the 
cove  abreast  of  the  town,  in  a  most  seaman- 
like  way. 

He  bewilders  you  too,  with  his  talk  about 
the  great  bridges  of  London — London 
bridge  specially,  where  they  sell  kids  for  a 
penny  ;  which  story  your  new  acquaintance, 
unfortunately,  does  not  confirm.  You  have 
read  of  these  bridges,  and  seen  pictures  of 
them  in  the  Wonders  of  the  World  ;  but 
then  Nat.  has  seen  them  with  his  own  eyes : 

C 


66  DREAM-LIFE. 

he  has  literally  walked  over  London  Bridge, 
on  his  own  feet !  You  look  at  his  very 
shoes  in  wonderment  and  are  surprised  you 
do  not  find  some  startling  difference  be 
tween  those  shoes,  and  your  shoes.  But 
there  is  none — only  yours  are  a  trifle  stouter 
in  the  welt.  You  think  Nat.  one  of  the 
fortunate  boys  of  this  world — born,  as  your 
old  nurse  used  to  say — with  a  gold  spoon  in 
his  mouth. 

Beside  Nat,  there  is  a  girl  lives  over  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  named  Jenny, 
with  an  eye  as  black  as  a  coal ;  and  a  half  a 
year  older  than  you  ;  but  about  your  height ; 
• — whom  you  fancy  amazingly. 

She  has  any  quantity  of  toys,  that  she  lets 
you  play  with,  as  if  they  were  your  own. 
And  she  has  an  odd,  old  uncle,  who  some 
times  makes  you  stand  up  together,  and 
then  marries  you  after  his  fashion, — much 
to  the  amusement  of  a  grown  up  house 
maid,  whenever  she  gets  a  peep  at  the  per 
formance.  And  it  makes  you  somewhat 
proud  to  hear  her  called  your  wife ;  and  you 
wonder  to  yourself,  dreamily,  if  it  won't  be 
true  some  day  or  other. 

Fie,  Clarence,  where  is  your  split 

sixpence,  and  your  blue  ribbon ! 

Jenny  is  romantic,  and  talks  of  Thaddeus 
of  Warsaw  in  a  very  touching  manner,  and 
promises  to  lend  you  the  book.  She  folds 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  F&IEND  LOST.    67 

billets  in  a  lover's  fashion,  and  practises 
love-knots  upon  her  bonnet  strings.  She 
looks  out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes  very 
often,  and  sighs.  She  is  frequently  by 
herself,  and  pulls  flowers  to  pieces.  She 
has  great  pity  for  middle-aged  bachelors^ 
and  thinks  them  all  disappointed  men. 

After  a  time  she  writes  notes  to  you, 
begging  you  would  answer  them  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment,  and  signs  herself 
—'your  attached  Jenny.'  She  takes  the 
marriage  farce  of  her  uncle  in  a  cold  way 
• — as  trifling  with  a  very  serious  subject, 
and  looks  tenderly  at  you.  She  is  very 
much  shocked  when  her  uncle  offers  to  kiss 
her ;  and  when  he  proposes  it  to  you,  she 
is  equally  indignant,  but — with  a  great 
change  of  color. 

Nat.  says  one  day,  in  a  confidential  con 
versation,  that  it  won't  do  to  marry  a 
woman  six  months  older  than  yourself; 
and  this  coming  from  Nat.  who  has  been  to 
London,  rather  staggers  you.  You  some 
times  think  that  you  would  like  to  marry 
Madge  and  Jenny  both,  if  the  thing  were 
possible  ;  for  Nat.  says  they  sometimes  do 
so  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  though  he 
has  never  seen  it  himself. 

.     Ah,  Clarence,  you  will  have  no  such 

weakness  as  you  grow  older :  you  will  find 
that  Providence  has  charitably,  so  tempered 


68  DREAM-LIFE. 

our  affections,  that  every  man  of  only 
ordinary  nerve  will  be  amply  satisfied  with 
a  single  wife  ! 

All  this  time, — for  you  are  making  your 
visit  a  very  long  one,  so  that  autumn  has 
come,  and  the  nights  are  growing  cool, 
and  Jenny  and  yourself  are  transferring 
your  little  coquetries  to  the  chimney 
corner; — poor  Charlie  lies  sick,  at  home. 
Boyhood,  thank  Heaven,  does  not  suffer 
severely  from  sympathy  when  the  object 
is  remote.  And  those  letters  from  the 
mother,  telling  you  that  Charlie  cannot 
play, — cannot  talk  even  as  he  used  to  do ; 
and  that  perhaps  his  'Heavenly  Father1 
will  take  him  away,  to  be  with  him  in  the 
better  world,'  disturb  you  for  a  time  only. 
Sometimes,  however,  they  come  back  to 
your  thought  on  a  wakeful  night,  and  you 
dream  about  his  suffering,  and  think — why 
it  is  not  you,  but  Charlie,  who  is  sick? 
The  thought  puzzles  you ;  and  well  it  may, 
for  in  it  lies  the  whole  mystery  of  our  fate. 

Those  letters  grow  more  and  more  dis 
couraging,  and  the  kind  admonitions  of 
your  mother  grow  more  earnest,  as  if 
(though  the  thought  does  not  come  to  you 
until  years  afterward)  she  was  preparing 
herself  to  fasten  upon  you,  that  surplus  of. 
affection,  which  she  fears  may  soon  be 
withdrawn  forever  from  the  sick  child. 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  *R*END  LOST.    89 

It  is  on  a  frosty,  bleak  evening,  whan 
you  are  playing  with  Nat.  that  the  letter 
reaches  you  which  says  Charlie  is  growing 
worse,  and  that  you  must  come  to  your 
home.  It  makes  a  dreamy  night  for  you 
—fancying  how  Charlie  will  look,  and  if 
sickness  has  altered  him  much,  and  if  he 
will  not  be  well  by  Christmas.  From  this, 
you  fall  away  in  your  reverie,  to  the  odd 
old  house,  and  its  secret  cupboards,  and 
your  aunt's  queer  caps  :  then  come  up 
those  black  eyes  of  'your  attached  Jenny,' 
and  you  think  it  a  pity  that  she  is  six 
months  older  than  you ;  and  again — as  you 
recal  one  of  her  sighs — you  think — that 
six  months  are  not  much  after  all ! 

You  bid  her  good-bye,  with  a  little  senti 
ment  swelling  in  your  throat,  and  are 
mortally  afraid  Nat.  will  see  your  lip 
tremble.  Of  course  you  promise  to  write, 
and  squeeze  her  hand  with  an  honesty,  you 
do  not  think  of  doubting — for  weeks. 

It  is  a  dull,  cold  ride,  that  day,  for  you. 
The  winds  sweep  over  the  withered  corn 
fields,  with  a  harsh,  chilly  whistle;  and  the 
surfaces  of  the  little  pools  by  the  road-side 
are  tossed  up  into  cold  blue  wrinkles  of 
water.  Here  and  there  a  flock  of  quail, 
with  their  feathers  ruffled  in  the  autumn 
gusts,  tread  through  the  hard,  dry  stubble 
of  an  oat-field ;  or  startled  by  the  snap  of 


To  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  driver's  whip,  they  stare  a  moment  at 
the  coach,  then  whir  away  down  the  cold 
current  of  the  wind.  The  blue  jays  scream 
from  the  road-side  oaks,  and  the  last  of  the 
blue  and  purple  asters  shiver  along  the 
wall.  And  as  the  sun  sinks,  reddening  all 
the  western  clouds,  to  the  color  of  the 
frosted  maples, — light  lines  of  the  Aurora 
gush  up  from  the  northern  hills,  and  trail 
their  splintered  fingers  far  over  the  autumn 
sky. 

It  is  quite  dark  when  you  reach  home, 
but  you  see  the  bright  reflection  of  a  fire 
within,  and  presently  at  the  open  door, 
Nelly  clapping  her  hands  for  welcome. 
But  there  are  sad  faces  when  you  enter. 
Your  mother  folds  you  to  her  heart;  but  at 
your  first  noisy  out-burst  of  joy,  puts  her 
finger  on  her  lip,  and  whispers  poor  Charlie's 
name.  The  Doctor  you  see  too,  slipping 
softly  out  of  the  bed-room  door  with  glasses 
in  his  hand ;  and — you  hardly  know  how — 
your  spirits  grow  sad,  and  your  heart 
gravitates  to  the  heavy  air  of  all  about  you. 

You  cannot  see  Cnarlie,  Nelly  says; — 
and  you  cannot  in  the  quiet  parlor,  tell 
Nelly  a  single  one  of  the  many  things, 
which  you  had  hoped  to  tell  her.  She 
says — '  Charlie  has  grown  so  thin  and  so 
pale,  you  would  never  know  him.'  You 
listen  to  her,  but  you  cannot  talk :  she  asks 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LC7T.    71 

you  what  you  have  seen,  and  you  begin, 
for  a  moment  joyously ;  but  when  they 
open  the  door  of  the  sick  room,  and  you 
hear  a  faint  sigh,  you  cannot  go  on.  You 
sit  still,  with  your  hand  in  Nelly's,  and 
look  thoughtfully  into  the  blaze. 

You  drop  to  sleep  after  that  day's  fatigue, 
with  singular  and  perplexed  fancies  haunt 
ing  you  ;  and  when  you  wake  up  with  a 
shudder  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  you 
have  a  fancy  that  Charlie  is  really  dead  : 
you  dream  of  seeing  him  pale  and  thin,  as 
Nelly  described  him,  and  with  the  starched 
grave  clothes  on  him.  You  toss  over  in 
your  bed,  and  grow  hot  and  feverish.  You 
cannot  sleep  ;  and  you  get  up  stealthily, 
and  creep  down  stairs ;  a  light  is  burning 
in  the  hall :  the  bed-room  door  stands  half 
open,  and  you  listen — fancying  you  hear  a 
whisper.  You  steal  on  through  the  hall, 
and  edge  around  the  side  of  the  door.  A 
little  lamp  is  flickering  on  the  hearth,  and 
the  gaunt  shadow  of  the  bedstead  lies  dark 
upon  the  ceiling.  Your  mother  is  in  her 
chair,  with  her  head  upon  her  hand — though 
it  is  long  after  midnight.  The  Doctor  is 
standing  with  his  back  toward  you,  and 
with  Charlie's  little  wrist  in  his  fingers ; 
and  you  hear  hard  breathing,  and  now  and 
then,  a  low  sigh  from  your  mother's  chair. 

An  occasional  gleam  of  fire-light  makes 


72  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  gaunt  shadows  stagger  on  the  wall, 
like  something  spectral.  You  look  wild 
ly  at  them,  and  at  the  bed  where  your 
own  brother — your  laughing,  gay-hearted 
brother,  is  lying.  You  long  to  see  him, 
and  sidle  up  softly  a  step  or  two  :  but  your 
mother's  ear  has  caught  the  sound,  and  she 
beckons  you  to  her,  and  folds  you  again 
in  her  embrace.  You  whisper  to  her  what 
you  wish.  She  rises,  and  takes  you  by  the 
hand,  to  lead  you  to  the  bedside. 

The  Doctor  looks  very  solemnly,  as  we 
approach.  He  takes  out  his  watch.  He 
is  not  counting  Charlie's  pulse,  for  he  has 
dropped  his  hand ;  and  it  lies  carelessly, 
but  oh,  how  thin  over  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

He  shakes  his  head  mournfully  at  your 
mother ;  and  she  springs  forward,  dropping 
your  hand,  and  lays  her  fingers  upon  the 
forehead  of  the  boy,  and  passes  her  hand 
over  his  mouth. 

"  Is  he  asleep,  Doctor  ? "  she  says,  in  a 
tone  you  do  not  know. 

"  Be  calm,  madam."  The  Doctor  is  very 
calm. 

"  I  am  calm,"  says  your  mother ;  but  you 
do  not  think  it,  for  you  see  her  tremble 
very  plainly. 

"  Dear  madam,  he  will  never  waken  in 
this  world  ! " 

There  is  no  cry, — only  a  bowing  down  of 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST.    73 

your  mother's  head  upon  the  body  of  poor, 
dead  Charlie ! — and  only  when  you  see  her 
form  shake  and  quiver  with  the  deep, 
smothered  sobs,  your  crying  bursts  forth 
loud  and  strong. 

The  Doctor  lifts  you  in  his  arms,  that 
you  may  see — that  pale  head, — those  blue 
eyes  all  sunken, — that  flaxen  hair  gone, — 

those  white  lips  pinched  and  hard ! 

Never,  never,  will  the  boy  forget  his  first 
terrible  sight  of  Death  ! 

In  your  silent  chamber,  after  the  storm 
of  sobs  has  wearied  you,  the  boy-dreams 
are  strange  and  earnest.  They  take  hold 
on  that  awful  Visitant, — that  strange  slip 
ping  away  from  life,  of  which  we  know  so 
little,  and  yet  know,  alas,  so  much !  Charlie 
that  was  your  brother,  is  now  only  a  name : 
perhaps  he  is  an  angel :  perhaps  (for  the 
old  nurse  has  said  it,  when  he  was  ugly — 
and  now,  you  hate  her  for  it)  he  is  with 
Satan. 

But  you  are  sure  this  cannot  be  :  you  are 
sure  that  God  who  made  him  suffer,  would 
not  now  quicken,  and  multiply  his  suffering. 
It  agrees  with  your  religion  to  think  so; 
and  just  now,  you  want  your  religion  to 
help  you  all  it  can. 

You  toss  in  your  bed,  thinking  over  a»d 

over  of  that  strange  thing Death  :  -and 

that  perhaps  it  may  overtake  you,  before 


74  DREAM-LIFE. 

you  are  a  man  ;  and  you  sob  -out  those 
prayers  (you  scarce  know  why)  which  ask 
God  to  keep  life  in  you.  You  think  the 
involuntary  fear  that  makes  your  little 
prayer  full  of  sobs,  is  a  holy  feeling  : — and 
so  it  is  a  holy  feeling — the  same  feeling 
which  makes  a  stricken  child,  yearn  for  the 
embrace,  and  the  protection  of  a  Parent. 
But  you  will  find  there  are  those  canting 
ones,  trying  to  persuade  you  at  a  later  day, 
that  it  is  a  mere  animal  fear,  and  not  to  be 
cherished. 

You  feel  an  access  of  goodness  growing 
out  of  your  boyish  grief :  you  feel  right- 
minded  :  it  seems  as  if  your  little  brother 
in  going  to  Heaven,  had  opened  a  pathway 
thither,  down  which,  goodness  comes  stream 
ing  over  your  soul. 

You  think  how  good  a  life  you  will  lead ; 
and  you  map  out  great  purposes,  spread 
ing  themselves  over  the  school-weeks  of 
your  remaining  boyhood ;  and  you  love 
your  friends,  or  seem  to,  far  more  dearly 
than  you  ever  loved  them  before ;  and  you 
forgive  the  boy  who  provoked  you  to  that 
sad  fall  from  the  oaks,  and  you  forgive  him 
all  his  wearisome  teasings.  But  you  cannot 
forgive  yourself  for  some  harsh  words  that 
you  have  once  spoken  to  Charlie  :  still  less 
can  you  forgive  yourself  for  having  once 
struck  him,  in  passion,  with  your  fist.  You 


A  FRIEND  MADE  AND  FRIEND  LOST.    75 

cannot  forget  his  sobs  then  : if  he  were 

only  alive  one  little  instant,  to  let  you  say, 
— "  Charlie,  will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

Yourself,  you  cannot  forgive  ;  and  sob 
bing  over  it,  and  murmuring  "  Dear — dear 
Charlie ! " — you  drop  into  a  troubled  sleep. 


BOY  RELIGION. 

IS  any  weak  soul  frightened,  that  I  should 
write  of  the  Religion  of  the  boy  ?  How 
indeed  could  I  cover  the  field  of  his  moral, 
or  intellectual  growth,  if  I  left  unnoticed 
those  dreams  of  futurity  and  of  goodness, 
which  come  sometimes  to  his  quieter  mo 
ments,  and  oftener,  to  his  hours  of  vexation 
and  trouble  ?  It  would  be  as  wise  to  de 
scribe  the  season  of  Spring,  with  no  note  of 
the  silent  influences  of  that  burning  Day- 
god,  which  is  melting  day  by  day  the  shat 
tered  ice-drifts  of  Winter ; — which  is  filling 
every  bud  with  .  succulence,  and  painting 
one  flower  with  crimson,  and  another  with 
white. 

I  know  there  is  a  feeling — by  much  too 
general  as  it  seems  to  me, — that  the  subject 
may  not  be  approached,  except  through 
the  dicta  of  certain  ecclesiastic  bodies ; — 
and  that  the  language  which  touches  it, 
must  not  be  that  every-day  language  which 
(76) 


BOY  RELIGION.  77 

mirrors  the  vitality  of  our  thought, — but 
should  have  some  twist  of  that  theologic 
mannerism,  which  is  as  cold  to  the  boy,  as 
to  the  busy  man  of  the  world. 

I  know  very  well  that  a  great  many  good 
souls  will  call  levity,  what  I  call  honesty ; 
and  will  abjure  that  familiar  handling  of  the 
boy's  lien  upon  Eternity,  which  my  story 
will  show.  But  I  shall  feel  sure  that  in 
keeping  true  to  Nature  with  word  and  with 
thought,  I  shall  in  no  way  offend  against 
those  Highest  truths,  to  which  all  truthful 
ness  is  kindred. 

You  have  Christian  teachers,  who  speak 
always  reverently  of  the  Bible  :  you  grow 
up  in  the  hearing  of  daily  prayers :  nay, 
you  are  perhaps  taught  to  say  them. 

Sometimes  they  have  a  meaning,  and 
sometimes  they  have  none.  They  have  a 
meaning,  when  your  heart  is  troubled, — 
when  a  grief  or  a  wrong  weighs  upon  you : 
then,  the  keeping  of  the  Father,  which  you 
implore,  seems  to  come  from  the  bottom  of 
your  soul ;  and  your  eye  suffuses  with  such 
tears  of  feeling,  as  you  count  holy,  and  as 
you  love  to  cherish  in  your  memory. 

But,  they  have  no  meaning,  when  some 
trifling  vexation  angers  you,  and  a  distaste 
for  all  about  you,  breeds  a  distaste  for  all 
above  you.  In  the  long  hours  of  toilsome 
days,  httle  thought  comes  over  you  of  th« 


78  DREAM-LIFE. 

morning  prayer ;  and  only  when,  evening 
deepens  its  shadows,  and  your  boyish  vexa 
tions  fatigue  you  to  thoughtfulness,  do  you 
dream  of  that  coming,  and  endless  night, 
to  which, — they  tell  you, — prayers  soften 
the  way. 

Sometimes  upon  a  Summer  Sunday,  when 
you  are  wakeful  upon  your  seat  in  church, 
with .  some  strong-worded  preacher,  who 
says  things  that  half  fright  you,  it  occurs  to 
you  to  consider  how  much  goodness  you  are 
made  of  ;  and  whether  there  be  enough  of 
it  after  all,  to  carry  you  safety  away  from 
the  clutch  of  Evil  ?  And  straightway  you 
reckon  up  those  friendships  where  your 
heart  lies :  you  know  you  are  a  true  and 
honest  friend  to  Frank ;  and  you  love  your 
mother,  and  your  father :  as  for  Nelly, 
Heaven  knows,  you  could  not  contrive  a 
way  to  love  her  better  than  you  do. 

You  dare  not  take  much  credit  to  your 
self  for  the  love  of  little  Madge  : — partly 
because  you  have  sometimes  caught  your 
self  trying — not  to  love  her :  and  partly 
because  the  black-eyed  Jenny  comes  in  the 
way.  Yet  you  can  find  no  command  in  the 
Catechism,  to  love  one  girl  to  the  exclusion 
of  all  other  girls.  It  is  somewhat  doubtful  if 
you  ever  do  find  it.  But,  as  for  loving  some 
half  dozen  you  could  name,  whose  images 
drift  through  your  thought,  in  dirty,  salmon« 


BOY  RELIGION.  79 

colored  frocks,  and  slovenly  shoes,  it  is 
quite  impossible ;  and  suddenly  this  thought, 
coupled  with  a  lingering  remembrance  of 
the  pea-green  pantaloons,  utterly  breaks 
down  your  hopes. 

Yet,  you  muse  again, — there  are  plenty  of 
good  people  as  the  times  go,  who  have  their 
dislikes,  and  who  speak  them  too.  Even 
the  sharp-talking  clergyman,  you  have  heard 
say  some  very  sour  things  about  his  land 
lord,  who  raised  his  rent  the  last  year. 
And  you  know  that  he  did  not  talk  as  mildly 
as  he  does  in  the  Church,  when  he  found 
Frank  and  yourself  quietly  filching  a  few  of 
his  peaches,  through  the  orchard  fence. 

But  your  clergyman  will  say  perhaps, 
with  what  seems  to  you,  quite  unnecessary 
coldness,  that  goodness  is  not  to  be  reckoned 
in  your  chances  of  safety  ; — that  there  is  a 
Higher  Goodness,  whose  merit  is  All-Suffi- 
cient.  This  puzzles  you  sadly ;  nor  will 
you  escape  the  puzzle,  until  in  the  presence 
of  the  Home  altar,  which  seems  to  guard 
you,  as  the  Lares  guarded  Roman  children, 
you  feel — you  cannot  tell  how, — that  good 
actions  must  spring  from  g*ood  sources ;  and 
that  those  sources  must  lie  in  that  Heaven, 
toward  which  your  boyish  spirit  yearns,  as 
you  kneel  at  your  mother's  side. 

Conscience  too,  is  all  the  while  approv 
ing  you  for  deeds  well  done;  and,— -wicked 


8o  DREAM-LIFE. 

as  you  fear  the  preacher  might  judge  it,— 
you  cannot  but  found  on  those  deeds,  a  hope 
that  your  prayer  at  night  flows  more  easily, 
more  freely,  and  more  holily  toward  "  Our 
Father  in  Heaven."  Nor  indeed,  later 
in  life, — whatever  may  be  the  ill-advised 
sxpressions  of  human  teachers — will  you 
ever  find  that  Duty  performed,  and  generous 
endeavor  will  stand  one  whit  in  the  way 
either  of  Faith,  or  of  Love.  Striving  to  be 
good,  is  a  very  direct  road  toward  Goodness; 
and  if  life  be  so  tempered  by  high  motive 
as  to  make  actions  always  good,  Faith  is 
unconsciously  won. 

Another  notion  that  disturbs  you  very 
much,  is  your  positive  dislike  of  long  ser 
mons,  and  of  such  singing  as  they  have 
when  the  organist  is  away.  You  cannot 
get  the  force  of  that  verse  of  Dr.  Watts 
which  likens  heaven  to  a  never-ending 
Sabbath ;  you  do  hope — though  it  seems 

a  half  wicked  hope — that  old  Dr. ,  will 

not  be  the  preacher.  You  think  that  your 
heart  in  its  best  moments,  craves  for  some 
thing  more  lovable.  You  suggest  this  per 
haps  to  some  Sunday  teacher,  who  only 
shakes  his  head  sourly,  and  tells  you  it  is  a 
thought  that  the  Devil  is  putting  in  your 
brain.  It  strikes  you  oddly  that  the  Devil 
should  be  using  a  verse  of  Dr.  Watts  to 
puzzle  you !  But  if  it  be  so,  he  keeps  it  stick- 


BOY  RELIGION.  81 

ing  by  your  thought  very  pertinaciously, 
until  some  simple  utterance  of  your  mother 
about  the  Love  that  reigns  in  the  other 
world,  seems  on  a  sudden  to  widen  Heaven, 
and  to  waft  away  your  doubts  like  a  cloud. 

It  excites  your  wonder  not  a  little,  to 
find  people  who  talk  gravely  and  heartily 
of  the  excellence  of  sermons  and  of  Church- 
going,  do  sometimes  fall  asleep  under  it  all. 
And  you  wonder — if  they  really  like  preach 
ing  so  well, — why  they  do  not  buy  some  of 
the  minister's  old  manuscripts,  and  read 
them  over  on  week-days ; — or,  invite  the 
Clergyman  to  preach  to  them  in  a  quiet 
way  in  private  ? 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  do  not  yet  know 

the  poor  weakness  of  even  maturest  man 
hood,  and  the  feeble  gropings  of  the  soul 
toward  a  soul's  paradise,  in  the  best  of  the 
world  !  You  do  not  yet  know  either  that  ig 
norance  and  fear  will  be  thrusting  their  un 
truth  and  false  show  into  the  very  essentials 
of  Religion. 

Again,  you  wonder, — if  the  Clergymen 
are  all  such  very  good  men  as  you  are  taught 
to  believe,  why  it  is,  that  every  little  while 
people  will  be  trying  to  send  them  off ;  and 
/ery  anxious  to  prove  that  instead  of  being 
so  good,  they  are  in  fact,  very  stupid  and 
bad  men.  At  that  day,  you  have  no  clear 
conceptions  of  the  distinction  between  stu- 


82  DREAM-LIFE. 

pidity  and  vice  ;  and  think  that  a  good  man 
must  necessarily  say  very  eloquent  things. 
You  will  find  yourself  sadly  mistaken  on 

this  point,  before  you  get  on  very  far  in 
....  •  j  *-'  * 

life. 

Heaven,  when  your  mother  peoples  it 
with  friends  gone,  and  little  Charlie,  and 
that  better  Friend,  who,  she  says,  took 
Charlie  in  his  arms,  and  is  now  his  Father, 
above  the  skies,  seems  a  place  to  be  loved, 
and  longed  for.  But — to  think  that  Mr. 
Such-an-one,  who  is  only  good  on  Sundays, 
will  be  there  too  ;  and  to  think  of  his  talk 
ing  as  he  does,  of  a  place  which  you  are 
sure  he  would  spoil  if  he  were  there, — puz 
zles  you  again  ;  and  you  relapse  into  won 
der,  doubt  and  yearning. 

And  there,  Clarence,  for  the  present 

I  shall  leave  you.  A  wide,  rich  Heaven 
hangs  above  you,  but  it  hangs  very  high. 
A  wide,  rough  world  is  around  you,  and  it 
lies  very  low ! 

I  am  assuming  in  these  sketches  no  office 
of  a  teacher.  I  am  seeking  only  to  make  a 
truthful  analysis  of  the  boyish  thought  and 
feeling.  But  having  ventured  thus  far  into 
what  may  seem  sacred  ground,  I  shall  ven 
ture  still  farther,  and  clinch  my  matter  with 
a  moral. 

There  is  very  much  Religious  teaching, 


BOY  RELIGION.  83 

even  in  so  good  a  country  as  New  England, 
which  is  far  too  harsh,  too  dry,  too  cold  for 
the  heart  of  a  boy.  Long  sermons,  doctri 
nal  precepts,  and  such  tediously-worded 
dogmas  as  were  uttered  by  those  honest, 
but  hard-spoken  men — the  Westminster 
Divines,  fatigue,  and  puzzle,  and  dispirit 
him. 

They  may  be  well  enough  for  those 
strong  souls  which  strengthen  by  task 
work,  orf or  those  mature  people  whose  iron 
habit  of  self-denial  has  made  patience  a 
cardinal  virtue  ;  but  they  fall  (experto  crede) 
upon  the  unfledged  faculties  of  the  boy, 
like  a  winter's  rain  upon  Spring  flowers,— 
like  hammers  of  iron  upon  lithe  timber. 
They  may  make  deep  impression  upon  his 
moral  nature,  but  there  is  great  danger  of 
a  sad  rebound. 

Is  it  absurd  to  suppose  that  some  adapta 
tion  is  desirable?  And  might  not  the 
teachings  of  that  Religion,  which  is  the 
^Egis  of  our  moral  being,  be  inwrought 
with  some  of  those  finer  harmonies  of 
speech  and  form — which  were  given  to 
wise  ends ; — and  lure  the  boyish  soul,  by  . 
something  akin  to  that  gentleness,  which 
belonged  to  the  Nazarene  Teacher ;  and 
which  provided — not  only,  meat  for  men, 
but.  "milk  for  babes?" 


VI. 

A  NEW  ENGLAND  SQUIRE. 

FRANK  has  a  grandfather  living  in  the 
country,  a  good  specimen  of  the  old 
fashioned  New  England  ±a;  mer.  And 
— go  where  one  will,  the  world  over — I 
know  of  no  race  of  men,  win*  taken  to 
gether,  possess  more  integrity,  more  intel 
ligence,  and  more  of  those  element?  of 
comfort,  which  go  to  make  a  hon»^  beloved, 
and  the  social  basis  firm,  than  the  New 
England  farmers. 

They  are  not  brilliant,  nor  are  ti^y  highly 
refined  ;  they  know  nothing  of  arts,  his 
trionic  or  dramatic ;  they  know  only  so 
much  of  older  nations  as  their  histories  and 
newspapers  teach  them  ;  in  the  fashionable 
world  they  hold  no  place ; — but  in  energy, 
in  industry,  in  hardy  virtue,  in  substantial 
knowledge,  and  in  manly  independence, 
they  make  up  a  race,  that  is  hard  to  be 
matched. 

The  French  peasantry  are,  in  all  the  e«- 
(84) 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  85 

sentials  of  intelligence,  and  sterling  worth, 
infants,  compared  with  them :  and  the 
farmers  of  England  are  either  the  merest 
jockeys  in  grain,  with  few  ideas  beyond 
their  sacks,  samples,  and  market-days ; — 
Or,  with  added  cultivation,  they  lose  their 
independence  in  a  subserviency  to  some 
neighbor  patron  of  rank ;  and  superior  in 
telligence  teaches  them  no  lesson  so 
quickly,  as  that  their  brethren  of  the  glebe 
are  unequal  to  them,  and  are  to  be  left  to 
their  cattle  and  the  goad. 

There  are  English  farmers  indeed,  who 
are  men  in  earnest,  who  read  the  papers, 
and  who  keep  the  current  of  the  year's  in 
telligence  ;  but  such  men  are  the  excep 
tions.  In  New  England,  with  the  school 
upon  every  third  hill-side,  and  the  self- 
regulating,  free-acting  church,  to  watch 
every  valley  with  week-day  quiet,  and  to 
wake  every  valley  with  Sabbath  sound,  the 
men  become  as  a  class,  bold,  intelligent,  and 
honest  actors,  who  would  make  again,  as 
they  have  made  before,  a  terrible  army  of 
defence;  and  who  would  find  reasons  for 
their  actions,  as  strong  as  their  armies. 

Frank's  grandfather  has  silver  hair,  but 
is  still  hale,  erect,  and  strong.  His  dress 
is  homely,  but  neat.  Being  a  thorough 
going  Protectionist,  he  has  no  fancy  for 
the  gew-gaws  of  foreign  importation,  and 


86  DREAM- LIFE, 

• 

makes  it  a  point  to  appear  always  in  the 
village  church,  and  on  all  great  occasions, 
in  a  sober  suit  of  homespun.  He  has  no 
pride  of  appearance,  and  he  needs  none. 
He  is  known  as  the  Squire,  throughout  the 
township ;  and  no  important  measure  can 
pass  the  board  of  select-men  without  the 
Squire's  approval : — and  this,  from  no  blind 
subserviency  to  his  opinion,  because  his 
farm  is  large,  and  he  is  reckoned  "fore 
handed,"  but  because  there  is  a  confidence 
in  his  judgment. 

He  is  jealous  of  none  of  the  prerogatives 
of  the  country  parson,  or  of  the  school 
master,  or  of  the  Village  doctor ;  and  al 
though  the  latter  is  a  testy  politician  of 
the  opposite  party,  it  does  not  at  all  impair 
the  Squire's  faith  in  his  calomel ; — he  suf 
fers  all  his  Radicalism,  with  the  same 
equanimity  that  he  suffers  his  rhubarb. 

The  day-laborers  of  the  neighborhood, 
and  the  small  farmers  consider  the  Squire's 
note  of  hand  for  their  savings,  better  than 
the  best  bonds  of  city  origin ;  and  they 
seek  his  advice  in  all  matters  of  litigation. 
He  is  a  Justice  of  the  Peace,  as  the  title  of 
Squire  in  a  New  England  village  implies ; 
and  many  are  the  country  courts  that  you 
peep  upon,  with  Frank,  from  the  door  of 
the  great  dining  room. 

The  defendant  always  seems  to  you,  in 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  87 

these  important  cases, — especially  if  his 
beard  is  rather  long, — an  extraordinary  ruf 
fian  ;  to  whom  Jack  Sheppard  would  have 
been  a  comparatively  innocent  boy.  You 
watch  curiously  the  old  gentleman,  sitting 
in  his  big  arm  chair,  with  his  spectacles  in 
their  silver  case  at  his  elbow,  and  his  snuff 
box  in  hand,  listening  attentively  to  some 
grievous  complaint ;  you  see  him  ponder 
deeply — with  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  aid  his 
judgment, — and  you  listen  with  intense 
admiration,  as  he  gives  a  loud,  preparatory 
"Ahem,"  and  clears  away  the  intricacies  of 
the  case  with  a  sweep  of  that  strong  prac 
tical  sense,  which  distinguishes  the  New 
England  farmer, — getting  at  the  very  hinge 
of  the  matter,  without  any  consciousness 
of  his  own  precision,  and  satisfying  the 
defendant  by  the  clearness  of  his  talk,  as 
much  as  by  the  leniency  of  his  judgment. 
His  lands  lie  along  those  swelling  hills 
which  in  southern  New  England,  carry  the 
chain  of  the  White  and  Green  Mountains, 
in  gentle  undulations,  to  the  borders  of  the 
sea.  He  farms  some  fifteen  hundred  acres, 
— "  suitably  divided,"  as  the  old  school  agri 
culturists  say,  into  "wood-land,  pasture, 
and  tillage."  The  farm-house,  a  large  irreg 
ularly  built  mansion  of  wood,  stands  upon 
a  shelf  of  the  hills  looking  southward,  and 
is  shaded  by  century-old  oaks.  The  barns 


88  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  out-buildings  are  grouped  in  a  brown 
phalanx,  a  little  to  the  northward  of  the 
dwelling.  Between  them  a  high  timber 
gate,  opens  upon  the  scattered  pasture 
lands  of  the  hills  :  opposite  to  this,  and 
across  the  farm-yard  which  is  the  lounging 
place  of  scores  of  red-necked  turkeys,  and 
of  matronly  hens,  clucking  to  their  callow 
brood,  another  gate  of  similar  pretensions 
opens  upon  the  wide  meadow  land,  which 
rolls  with  a  heavy  "  ground  swell,"  along 
the  valley  of  a  mountain  river.  A  veteran 
oak  stands  sentinel  at  the  brown  meadow- 
gate,  its  trunk  all  scarred  with  the  ruthless 
cuts  of  new-ground  axes,  and  the  limbs 
garnished  in  summer  time,  with  the  crooked 
snathes  of  murderous-looking  scythes. 

The  high-road  passes  a  stone's  throw 
away;  but  there  is  little  "travel"  to  be 
seen ;  and  every  chance  passer  will  inevit 
ably  come  under  the  range  of  the  kitchen 
windows,  and  be  studied  carefully  by  the 
eyes  of  the  stout  dairy-maid : — to  say  noth 
ing  of  the  stalwart  Indian  cook. 

This  last,  you  cannot  but  admire  as  a 
type  of  that  noble  old  race,  among  whom 
your  boyish  fancy  has  woven  so  many 
stories  of  romance. .  You  wonder  how  she 
must  regard  the  white  interlopers  upon  her 
own  soil ;  and  you  think  that  she  tolerates 
the  Squire's  farming  privileges,  with  more 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  89 

modesty  than  you  would  suppose.  You 
learn,  however,  that  she  pays  very  little 
regard  to  white  rights, — when  they  conflict 
with  her  own;  and  further  learn,  to  your 
deep  regret,  that  your  Princess  of  the  old 
tribe,  is  sadly  addicted  to  cider  drinking  i 
and  having  heard  her  once  or  twice,  with  a 
very  indistinct  "  Goo-er  night  Sq-quare," 
upon  her  lips — your  dreams  about  her,  grow 
very  tame. 

The  Squire,  like  all  very  sensible  men, 
has  his  hobbies,  and  peculiarities.  He  has 
a  great  contempt,  for  instance,  for  all  paper 
money ;  and  imagines  banks  to  be  corpor 
ate  societies,  skillfully  contrived  for  the 
.egal  plunder  of  the  community.  He  keeps 
a  supply  of  silver  and  gold  by  him,  in  the 
foot  of  an  old  stocking ;  and  seems  to 
have  great  confidence  in  the  value  of  Span 
ish  milled  dollars.  He  has  no  kind  of  pa 
tience  with  the  new  doctrines  of  farming. 
Liebig,  and  all  the  rest,  he  sets  down  as 
mere  theorists  ;  and  has  far  more  respect 
for  the  contents  of  his  barn-yard,  than  for 
all  the  guano  deposits  in  the  world.  Scien 
tific  farming,  and  gentleman  farming,  may 
do  very  well,  he  says,  '  to  keep  idle  young 
fellows  from  the  City  out  of  mischief ;  but 
as  for  real,  effective  management,  there's 
nothing  like  the  old  stock  of  men,  who  ran 
barefoot  until  they  were  ten,  and  who  count 


90  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  hard  winters  by  their  frozen  toes.'  And 
he  is  fond  of  quoting  in  this  connection, — 
the  only  quotation  by  the  by,  that  the  old 
gentleman  ever  makes — that  couplet  of 
Poor  Richard : — 

He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive, 
Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive. 

The  Squire  has  been  in  his  day,  con 
nected  more  or  less  intimately  with  Turn 
pike  enterprise,  which  the  rail-roads  of  the 
day  have  thrown  sadly  into  the  back 
ground  ;  and  he  reflects  often,  in  a  melan 
choly  way,  upon  the  good  old  times  when 
a  man  could  travel  in  his  own  carriage  qui 
etly  across  the  country,  without  being 
frightened  with  the  clatter  of  an  engine  ; — 
and  when  Turn-pike  stock,  paid  wholesome 
yearly  dividends  of  six  per  cent. 

An  almost  constant  hanger-on  about  the 
premises,  and  a  great  favorite  with  the 
Squire,  is  a  stout,  middle-aged  man,  with  a 
heavy  bearded  face — to  whom  Frank  intro 
duces  you,  as  "Captain  Dick";  and  he 
tells  you  moreover,  that  he  is  a  better 
butcher, — a  better  wall  layer,  and  cuts  a 
broader  "swathe,"  than  any  man  upon  the 
farm.  Beside  all  which,  he  has  an  immense 
deal  of  information.  He  knows,  in  the 
Spring,  where  all  the  crows'  nests  are  to  be 
found ;  he  tells  Frank  where  the  foxes  bur- 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SQUIRE.  91 

row ;  he  has  even  shot  two  or  three  rac 
coons  in  the  swamps  ;  he  knows  the  best 
season  to  troll  for  pickerel;  he  has  a 
thorough  understanding  of  bee-hunting  ;  he 
can  tell  the  ownership  of  every  stray  heifer 
that  appears  upon  the  road  :  indeed,  scarce 
an  inquiry  is  made,  or  an  opinion  formed, 
on  any  of  these  subjects,  or  on  such  kin 
dred  ones  as  the  weather,  or  potato  crop, 
without  previous  consultation  with  "  Cap 
tain  Dick." 

You  have  an  extraordinary  respect  for 
Captain  Dick  :  his  gruff  tones,  dark  beard, 
patched  waistcoat,  and  cow-hide  boots,  only 
add  to  it :  you  can  compare  your  regard  for 
him,  only  with  the  sentiments  you  enter 
tain  for  those  fabulous  Roman  heroes,  led 
on  by  Horatius,  who  cut  down  the  bridge 
.across  the  Tiber,  and  then  swam  over  to 
their  wives  and  families. 

A  superannuated  old  greyhound  lives 
about  the  premises,  and  stalks  lazily  around, 
thrusting  his  thin  nose  into  your  hands,  in 
a  very  affectionate  manner. 

Of  course,  in  your  way,  you  are  a  lion 
among  the  boys  of  the  neighborhood:  a 
blue  jacket  that  you  wear,  with  bell  buttons 
of  white  metal,  is  their  especial  wonder 
ment.  You  astonish  them,  moreover,  with 
your  stories  of  various  parts  of  the  world 
which  they  have  never  visited.  They  tell 


«c  DREAM-LIFE. 

you  of  the  haunts  of  rabbits,  and  great 
snake  stories,  as  you  sit  in  the  dusk  after 
supper,  under  the  old  oaks ;  and  you  delight 
them  in  turn,  with  some  marvellous  tale  of 
South  American  reptiles,  out  of  Peter 
Parley's  books. 

In  all  this,  your  new  friends  are  men  of 
jbservation  ;  while  Frank  and  yourself,  are 
comparatively  men  of  reading.  In  cipher 
ing,  and  all  schooling,  you  find  yourself  a 
long  way  before  them  ;  and  you  talk  of 
problems,  and  foreign  seas,  and  Latin 
declensions,  in  a  way  that  sets  them  all 
agape. 

As  for  the  little  country  girls,  their  bare 
legs  rather  stagger  your  notions  of  pro 
priety  ;  nor  can  you  wholly  get  over  their 
outside  pronunciation  of  some  of  the  vow 
els.  Frank,  however,  has  a  little  cousin,— 
a  toddling,  wee  thing,  some  seven  years 
your  junior,  who  has  a  rich  eye  for  an 
infant.  But,  alas,  its  color  means  nothing ; 
poor  Fanny  is  stone  blind !  Your  pity 
leans  toward  her  strangely,  as  she  feels  her 
way  about  the  old  parlor ;  and  her  dark  eyes 
wander  over  the  wainscot,  or  over  the  clear, 
blue  sky — with  the  same,  sad,  painful 
vacancy. 

And  yet — it  is  very  strange  ! — she  does 
not  grieve ;  there  is  a  sweet,  soft  smile 
upon  her  lip, — a  smile  that  will  come  to  you 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SQUIXE.  93 

in  your  fancied  troubles  of  after  life,  with 
a  deep  voice  of  reproach. 

Altogether,  you  grow  into  a  liking  of  the 
country  :  your  boyish  spirit  loves  its  fresh, 
bracing  air,  and  the  sparkles  of  dew,  that 
at  sunrise  cover  the  hills  with  diamonds ; 
—and  the  wild  river,  with  its  black-topped, 
loitering  pools  ; — and  the  shaggy  mists  that 
lie,  in  the  nights  of  early  autumn,  like  un 
ravelled  clouds,  lost  upon  the  meadow. 
You  love  the  hills  climbing  green  and  grand 
to  the  skies  ;  or  stretching  awa*y  in  distance, 
their  soft,  blue,  smoky  caps, — like  the 
sweet,  half-faded  memories  of  the  years 
behind  you.  You  love  those  oaks  tossing 
up  their  broad  arms  into  clear  heaven,  with 
a  spirit  .and  a  strength,  that  kindles  your 
dawning  pride  and  purposes  ;  and  that  makes 
you  yearn,  as  your  forehead  mantles  with 
fresh  blood,  for  a  kindred  spirit,  and  a  kin 
dred  strength.  Above  all,  you  love — 
though  you  do  not  know  it  now — the 
BREADTH  of  a  country  life.  In  the  fields 
of  God's  planting,  there  is  ROOM.  No 
walls  of  brick  and  mortar  cramp  one :  no 
factitious  distinctions  mould  your  habit. : 
The  involuntary  reaches  of  the  spirit,  tend 
toward  the  True,  and  the  Natural.  The 
flowers,  the  clouds,  and  the  fresh-smelling 
earth,  all  give  width  to  your  intent.  The 
boy  grows  into  manliness,  instead  of  grow- 


94  DREAM- LIFE. 

ing  to  be  like  men.  He  claims, — with  teara 
almost,  of  brotherhood, — his  kinship  with 
Nature ;  and  he  feels,  in  the  mountains,  his 
heirship  to  the  Father  of  Nature  ! 

This  delirium  of  feeling  may  not  find  ex 
pression  upon  the  lip  of  the  boy;  but  yet 
it  underlies  his  thought,  and  will,  without 
his  consciousness,  give  the  spring  to  his 
musing  dreams. 

So  it  is,  that  as  you  lie  there  upon 

the  sunny  greensward,  at  the  old  Squire's 
door,  you  muse  upon  the  time  when  some 
rich  lying  land,  with  huge  granaries,  and 
cozy  old  mansion  sleeping  under  the  trees, 
shall  be  yours  ; — when  the  brooks  shall 
water  your  meadows,  and  come  laughing 
down  your  pasture  lands ; — when  the  clouds 
shall  shed  their  spring  fragrance  upon  your 
lawns,  and  the  daisies  bless  your  paths. 

You  will  then  be  a  Squire,  with  your 
cane,  your  lean-limbed  hound,  your  stock 
ing-leg  of  specie,  and  your  snuff-box.  You 
will  be  the  happy,  and  respected  husband 
of  some  tidy  old  lady  in  black,  and  spec 
tacles, — a  little  phthisicky,  like  Frank's 
grandmother, — and  an  accomplished  cook 
of  stewed  pears,  and  Johnny  cakes  ! 

It  seems  a  very  lofty  ambition,  at  this 
stage  of  growth,  to  reach  such  eminence, 
as  to  convert  your  drawer  in  the  wainscot, 
that  has  a  secret  spring,  into  a  bank  for  the 


A  NE  W  ENGLA  ND  SQ  UIRB.  93 

country  people ;  and  the  power  to  send  a 
man  to  jail,  seems  one  of  those  stretches 
of  human  prerogative,  to  which  few  of  your 
fellow  mortals  can  ever  hope  to  attain. 

Well,  it  may  all  be.  And  who 

knows  but  the  Dreams  of  Age,  when  they 
are  reached,  will  be  lighted  by  the  same 
spirit  and  freedom  of  nature,  that  is  around 
you  now  ?  Who  knows,  but  that  after 
tracking  you  through  the  Spring,  and  the 
Summer  of  Youth,  we  shall  find  frosted 
Age  settling  upon  you  heavily,  and 
solemnly,  in  the  very  fields  where  you 
wanton  to-day  ? 

This  American  life  of  ours  is  a  tortuous 
and  shifting  impulse.  It  brings  Age  bacK, 
from  years  of  wandering,  to  totter  in  the 
hamlet  of  its  birth ;  and  it  scatters  armies 
of  ripe  manhood,  to  bleach  far-away  shores 
with  their  bones. 

That  Providence,  whose  eye  and  hand 
are  the  spy  and  the  executioner  of  the 
Fateful  changes  of  our  life,  may  bring  you 
back  in  Manhood,  or  in  Age,  to  this  moun 
tain  home  of  New  England ;  and  that  very 
willow  yonder,  which  your  fancy  now 
makes  the  graceful  mourner  of  your  leave, 
may  one  day  shadow  mournfully  your 
grave! 


VI L 
THE   COUNTRY  CHURCH. 

THE  country  church  is  a  square  old 
building  of  wood,  without  paint  or 
decoration — and  of  that  genuine,  Puri 
tanic  stamp,  which  is  now  fast  giving  way 
to  Greek  porticos,  and  to  cockney  towers. 
It  stands  upon  a  hill  with  a  little  church 
yard  in  its  rear,  where  one  or  two  sickly 
looking  trees  keep  watch  and  ward  over 
the  vagrant  sheep  that  graze  among  the 
graves.  Bramble  bushes  seem  to  thrive 
on  the  bodies  below,  and  there  is  no  flower 
in  the  little  yard,  save  a  few  golden  rods, 
which  flaunt  their  gaudy  inodorous  color 
under  the  lee  of  the  northern  wall. 

New  England  country-livers  have  as  yet 
been  very  little  innoculated  with  the  sen 
timent  of  beauty;  even  the  door-step  to 
the  church  is  a  wide  flat  stone,  that  shows 
not  a  single  stroke  of  the  hammer.  Within, 
the  simplicity  is  even  more  severe.  Brown 
galleries  run  around  three  sides  of  the  old 
(96) 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  ffl 

bdilding,  supported  by  timbers,  on  which 
you  still  trace,  under  the  stains  from  the 
leaky  roof,  the  deep  scoring  of  the  wood 
man  s  axe. 

Below,  the  unpainted  pews  are  ranged  in 
square  forms,  and  by  age,  have  gained  the 
color  of  those  fragmentary  wrecks  of  cigai 
boxes,  which  you  see  upon  the  top  shelves, 
in  the  bar-rooms  of  country  taverns.  The 
minister's  desk  is  lofty,  and  has  once  been 
honored  with  a  coating  of  paint ; — as  well 
as  the  huge  sounding-board,  which,  to 
your  great  amazement,  protrudes  from  the 
wall,  at  a  very  dangerous  angle  of  inclina 
tion,  over  the  speaker's  head.  .  As  the 
Squire's  pew  is  the  place  of  honor,  to  the 
right  of  the  pulpit,  you  have  a  little  tremor 
yourself,  at  sight  of  the  heavy  sounding- 
board,  and  cannot  forbear  indulging  in  a 
quiet  feeling  of  relief,  when  the  last  prayer 
is  said. 

There  are  in  the  Squire's  pew,  long,  faded, 
crimson  cushions  ;  which,  it  seems  to  you, 
must  date  back  nearly  to  the  commence 
ment  of  the  Christian  era  in  this  country. 
There  are  also  sundry  old  thumb-worn 
copies  of  Dr.  Dwight  s  Version  of  the 
Psalms  of  David — 'appointed  to  be  sung 
in  churches,  by  authority  of  the  General 
Association  of  the  State  cf  Connecticut.' 
The  sides  of  Dr.  Dwight's  Version  are, 

D 


98  DREAM-LIFE. 

you  observe,  sadly  warped,  and  weather- 
stained ;  and  from  some  stray  figures 
which  appear  upon  a  fly-leaf,  you  are  con 
strained  to  think,  that  the  Squire  has 
sometimes  employed  a  quiet  interval  of 
the  service,  with  reckoning  up  the  con 
tents  of  the  old  stocking-leg  at  home. 

The  parson,  is  a  stout  man,  remarkable 
in  your  opinion,  chiefly,  for  a  yellowish- 
brown  wig,  a  strong  nasal  tone,  and  oc 
casional  violent  thumps  upon  the  little, 
dingy,  red  velvet  cushion,  studded  with 
brass  tacks,  at  the  top  of  the  desk.  You 
do  not  altogether  admire  his  style  ;  and  by 
the  time  he  has  entered  upon  his  '  Fourth 
ly.'  you  give  your  attention,  in  despair,  to 
a  new  reading  (it  must  be  the  twentieth) 
of  the  preface  to  Dr.  Dwight's  Version  of 
the  Psalms. 

The  singing  has  a  charm  for  you.  There 
is  a  long,  thin-faced,  flax-haired  man,  who 
carries  a  tuning  fork  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  who  leads  the  choir.  His 
position  is  in  the  very  front  rank  of  gallery 
benches,  facing  the  desk ;  and  by  the  time 
the  old  clergyman  has  read  two  verses  of 
the  psalm,  the  country  chorister  turns 
around  to  his  little  group  of  aids — consist 
ing  of  the  blacksmith,  a  carroty  headed 
school-master,  two  women  in  snuff-colored 
silks,  and  a  girl  in  pink  bonnet — to  an 
nounce  the  tune. 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  99 

This  being  done  in  an  authoritative 
manner,  he  lifts  his  long  music  book, — 
glances  again  at  his  little  company, — clears 
his  throat  by  a  powerful  ahem,  followed  by 
a  powerful  use  of  a  bandanna  pocket-hand 
kerchief, — draws  out  his  tuning  fork,  and 
waits  for  the  parson  to  close  his  reading. 
He  now  reviews  once  more  his  company, — 
throws  a  reproving  glance  at  the  young 
woman  in  the  pink  hat,  who  at  the  moment 
is  biting  off  a  stout  bunch  of  fennel, — 
lifts  his  music  book, — thumps  upon  the 
rail  with  his  fork, — listens  keenly, — gives 
a  slight  ahem,  falls  into  the  cadence,— 
swells  into  a  strong  crescendo, — catches  at 
the  first  word  of  the  line,  as  if  he  were 
afraid  it  might  get  away, — turns  to  his 
company, — lifts  his  music  book  with  spirit, 
— gives  it  a  powerful  slap  with  the  disen 
gaged  hand,  and  with  a  majestic  toss  of 
the  head,  soars  away,  with  half  the  women 
below  straggling  .on  in  his  wake,  into  some 
such  brave,  old  melocly  as LITCHFIELD  ! 

Being  a  visitor,  and  in  the  Squire's  pew, 
you  are  naturally  an  object  of  considerable 
attention  to  the  girls  about  your  age ;  as 
well  as  to  a  great  many  fat.  old  ladies  in 
iron  spectacles,  who  mortify  you  exces 
sively,  by  patting  you  under  the  chin  after 
church  ;  and  insist  upon  mistaking  you  for 
Frank ;  and  force  upon  you  very  dry  cook 
ies,  spiced  with  caraway  seeds. 


:oo  DREAM-LIFh.. 

You  keep  somewhat  shy  of  the  young 
ladies,  as  they  are  rather  stout  for  your 
notions  of  beauty ;  and  wear  thick  calf- 
skin  boots.  They  compare  very  poorly 
with  Jenny.  Jenny,  you  think,  would  be 
above  eating  gingerbread  between  service. 
None  of  them,  you  imagine,  even  read 
Thaddeus  of  Warsaw,  or  ever  used  a 
colored  glass  seal  with  a  heart  upon  it. 
You  are  quite  certain  they  never  did,  or 
they  could  not,  surely,  wear  such  dowdy 
gowns,  and  suck  their  thumbs  as  they  do  I 

The  farmers  you  have  a  high  respect 
for ; — particularly  for  one  weazen-faced  old 
gentleman  in  a  brown  surtout,  who  brings 
his  whip  into  church  with  him,  who  sings 
in  a  very  strong  voice,  and  who  drives  a 
span  of  gray  colts.  You  think,  however, 
that  he  has  got  rather  a  stout  wife ;  and 
from  the  way  he  humors  her  in  stopping  to 
talk  with  two  or  three  other  fat  women, 
before  setting  off  for  home,  (though  he 
seems  a  little  fidgetty)  yo'u  naively  think, 
that  he  has  a  high  regard  for  her  opinion. 
Another  townsman,  who  attracts  your 
notice,  is  ?.  stout  old  deacon,  who  before 
entering,  always  steps  around  the  corner 
of  the  church,  and  puts  his  hat  upon  the 
ground,  to  adjust  his  wig  in  a  quiet  way. 
He  then  marches  up  the  broad  aisle  in'  a 
stately  manner,  and  plants  his  hat,  and  a 


'1  HE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  101 

big  pair  of  buckskin  mittens,  on  the  little 
table  under  the  desk.  When  he  is  fairly 
seated  in  his  corner  of  the  pew,  with  his 
elbow  upon  the  top-rail — almost  the  only 
man  who  can  comfortably  reach  it, — you 
observe  that  he  spreads  his  brawny  fingers 
over  his  scalp,  in  an  exceedingly  cautious 
manner ;  and  you  innocently  think  again, 
that  it  is  very  hypocritical  in  a  Deacon,  to 
be  pretending  to  lean  upon  his  hand,  when 
he  is  only  keeping  his  wig  straight. 

After  the  morning  service,  they  have 
an  'hour's  intermission,'  as  the  preacher 
calls  it ;  during  which,  the  old  men  gather 
on  a  sunny  side  of  the  building,  and  after 
shaking  hands  all  around,  and  asking  after 
the  'folks 'at  home,  they  enjoy  a  quiet 
talk  about  the  crops.  One  man  for  in 
stance,  with  a  twist  in  his  nose,  would 
say,  'it's  raether  a  growin'  season;'  and 
another  would  reply — '  tolerable,  but  pota 
toes  is  feelin'  the  wet,  badly.'  The  stout 
deacon  approves  this  opinion,  and  confirms 
it,  by  blowing  his  nose  very  powerfully. 

Two  or  three  of  the  more  worldly  minded 
ones,  will  perhaps  stroll  over  to  a  neighbor's 
barn-yard,  and  take  a  look  at  his  young 
stock,  and  talk  of  prices,  and  whittle  a 
little ;  and  very  likely  some  two  of  them, 
will  make  a  conditional  '  swop '  of  '  three 
likely  yerlings '  for  a  pair  of '  two-year-olds.' 


102  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  youngsters  are  fond  of  getting  out 
into  the  grave-yard,  and  comparing  jack 
knives,  or  talking  about  the  school-master, 
or  the  menagerie ; — or,  it  may  be,  of  some 
prospective  'travel*  in  the  fall, — either  to 
town  or  perhaps  to  the  'sea-shore.' 

Afternoon  service  hangs  heavily  ;  and 
the  tall  chorister  is  by  no  means  so  blithe, 
or  so  majestic  in  the  toss  of  his  head,  as 
in  the  morning.  A  boy  in  the  next  box, 
tries  to  provoke  you  into  familiarity  by 
dropping  pellets  of  gingerbread  through 
the  bars  of  the  pew ;  but  as-  you  are  not 
accustomed  to  that  way  of  making  acquaint 
ance,  you  decline  all  overtures. 

After  the  service  is  finished,  the  wagons 
that  have  been  disposed  on  either  side  of 
the  road,  are  drawn  up  before  the  door. 
The  old  Squire  meantime,  is  sure  to  have 
a  little  chat  with  the  parson  before  he 
leaves  ;  in  the  course  of  which,  the  parson 
takes  occasion  to  say  that  his  wife  is  a 
little  ailing — 'a  slight  touch,'  he  thinks, 
'of  the  rheumatiz.'  One  of  the  children 
too,  has  been  troubled  with  the  '  summer 
complaint '  for  a  day  or  two ;  but  he  thinks 
that  a  dose  of  catnip,  under  Providence, 
will  effect  a  cure.  The  younger,  and  un 
married  men,  with  red  wagons,  flaming 
upon  bright,  yellow  wheels,  make  great 
efforts  to  drive  off  in  the  van ;  and  they 


THE  COUNTRY  CHURCH.  103 

spin  frightfully  near  some  of  the  fat,  sour- 
faced  women,  who  remark  in  a  quiet, -but 
not  very  Christian  tone,  that  '  they  fear  the 
elder's  sermon  hasn't  done  the  young  bucks 
much  good.'  It  is  much  to  be  feared,  in 
truth,  that  it  has  not. 

In  ten  minutes  the  old  church  is  thor 
oughly  deserted  ;  the  neighbor  who  keeps 
the  key  has  locked  up  for  another  week, 
the  creaking  door ;  and  nothing  of  the 
service  remains  within,  except  —  Dr. 
Dwight's  version, — the  long  music  books, — 
crumbs  of  gingerbread,  and  refuse  stocks 
of  despoiled  fennel. 

And"  yet,  under  the  influence  of  that  old 
weather-stained  temple,  are  perhaps  grow 
ing  up — though  you  do  not  once  fancy  it 
— souls,  possessed  of  an  energy,  an  industry, 
and  a  respect  for  virtue,  which  will  make 
them  stronger  for  the  real  work  of  life, 
than  all  the  elegant  children  of  a  city.  One 
lesson,  which  even  the  rudest  churches  of 
New  England  teach, — with  all  their  harsh 
ness,  and  all  their  repulsive  severity  of 
form  • —  is  the  lesson  of  SELF-DENIAL. 
Once  armed  with  that,  and  manhood  is 
strong.  The  soul  that  possesses  the  con 
sciousness  of  masterin  g  passion,  is  endowed 
with  an  element  of  force,  that  can  never 
harmonize  with  defeat.  Difficulties,  it  v/ears 
like  a  summer  garment,  and  flings  away, 
at  the  first  approach  of  the  winter  of  NEED. 


Let  not  any  one  suppose  t'^en,  that  in 
this  detail  of  the  country  life,  th/ough  which 
our  hero  is  led,  I  would  cast  obloquy,  or  a 
sneer,  upon  its  simplicity,  or  upon  its  lack 
of  refinement.  Goodness,  and  strength,  in 
this  world,  are  quite  as  apt  to  wear  rough 
coats,  as  fine  ones.  And  the  words  of  thor 
ough,  and  self-sacrificing  kindness,  are  far 
more  often  dressed  in  the  uncouth  sounds 
of  retired  life,  than  in  the  polished  utterance 
of  the  town.  Heaven  has  not  made  warm 
hearts,  and  honest  hearts  distinguishable 
by  the  quality  of  the  covering.  True  dia 
monds  need  no  work  of  the  artificer  to 
reflect,  and  multiply  their  rays.  Goodness 
is  more  within,  than  without ;  and  purity  is 
of  nearer  kin  to  the  soul,  than  to  the  body. 

And,  Clarence,  it  may  well  happen, 

that  later  in  life — under  the  gorgeous  ceil 
ings  of  Venetian  churches,  or  at  some  splen 
did  mass  of  Notre  Dame,  with  embroidered 
coats,  and  costly  silks  around  you, — your 
thoughts  will  run  back  to  that  little  storm- 
beaten  church,  and  to  the  willow  waving  in 
its  yard — with  a  Hope  that  glows  ; — and 
v'th  a  tear  that  you  embalm  ' 


VIII. 

A  HOME  SCENE. 

AND  now  I  shall  not  leave  this  realm  of 
boyhood,  or  suffer  my  hero  to  slip 
away  from  this  gala  time  of  his  life, 
without  a  fair  look  at  that  Home  where  his 
present   pleasures   lie,   and  where  all  his 
dreams  begin  and  end. 

Little  does  the  boy  know,  as  the  tide  of 
years  drifts  by,  floating  him  out  insensibly 
from  the  harbor  of  his  home,  upon  the 
great  sea  of  life, — what  joys,  what  oppor 
tunities,  what  affections,  are  slipping  from 
him  into  the  shades  of  that  inexorable 
Past,  where  no  man  can  go,  save  on  the 
wings  of  his  dreams.  Little  does  he  think 
— and  God  be  praised,  that  the  thought 
does  not  sink  deep  lines  in  his  young  fore 
head! — as  he  leans  upon  the  lap  of  his 
mother,  with  his  eye  turned  to  her,  in  some 
earnest  pleading  for  a  fancied  pleasure  of 
the  hour,  or  in  some  important  story  of  his 
griefs,  that  such  sharing  of  his  sorrows, 


lo6  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  such  sympathy  with  his  wishes,  he 
will  find  no  where  again. 

Little  does  he  imagine,  that  the  fond 
Nelly,  ever  thoughtful  of  his  pleasure,  ever 
smiling  away  his  griefs — will  soon  be  be 
yond  the  reach  of  either ;  and  that  the 
waves  of  the  years  which  come  rocking  so 
gently  under  him,  will  soon  toss  her  far 
away,  upon  the  great  swell  of  life. 

But  now,  you  are  there.  The  fire-light 
glimmers  upon  the  walls  of  your  cherished 
home,  like  the  Vestal  fire  of  old  upon  the 
figures  of  adoring  virgins,  or  like  the  flame 
of  Hebrew  sacrifice,  whose  incense  bore 
hearts  to  Heaven.  The  big  chair  of  your 
father  is  drawn  to  its  wonted  corner  by  the 
chimney  side  ;  his  head,  just  touched  with 
gray,  lies  back  upon  its  oaken  top.  Little 
Nelly  leans  upon  his  knee,  looking  up  for 
some  reply  to  her  girlish  questionings. 
Opposite,  sits  your  mother ;  her  figure  is 
thin,  her  look  cheerful,  yet  subdued  ; — her 
arm  perhaps  resting  on  your  shoulder,  as 
she  talks  to  you  in  tones  of  tender  admoni 
tion,  of  the  days  that  are  to  come. 

The  cat  is  purring  on  the  hearth;  the 
clock  that  ticked  so  plainly  when  Charlie 
died,  is  ticking  on  the  mantel  still.  The 
great  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 
its  books  and  work,  waits  only  for  the 
lighting  of  the  evening  lamp,  to  see  a  re- 


A  HOME  SCENE.  107 

turn  to  its  stores  of  embroidery,  and  of 
story. 

Upon  a  little  stand  under  the  mirror, 
which  catches  now  and  then  a  flicker  of 
the  fire-light,  and  makes  it  play,  as  if  in 
wanton,  upon  the  ceiling,  lies  that  big  book, 
reverenced  of  your  New  England  parents 
— the  Family  Bible.  It  is  a  ponderous 
square  volume,  with  heavy  silver  clasps, 
that  you  have  often  pressed  open  for  a 
look  at  its  quaint  old  pictures,  or  for  a 
study  of  those  prettily  bordered  pages, 
which  lie  between  the  Testaments,  and 
which  hold  the  Family  Record. 

There  are  the  Births  ; — your  father's, 
and  your  mother's  ;  it  seems  as  if  they 
were  born  a  long  time  ago  ;  and  even  your 
own  date  of  birth  appears  an  almost  incred 
ible  distance  back.  Then,  there  are  the 
marriages ; — only  one  as  yet ;  and  your 
mother's  maiden  name  looks  oddly  to  you  : 
it  is  hard  to  think  of  her  as  any  one  else 
than  your  doting  parent.  You  wonder  if 
your  name  will  ever  come  under  that  pag 
ing  ;  and  wonder,  though  you  scarce  whis 
per  the  wonder  to  yourself,  how  another 
name  would  look,  just  below  yours — such 
a  name  for  instance,  as  Fanny, — or  as  Miss 
Margaret  Boyne ! 

Last  of  all,  come  the  Deaths — only  one. 
Poor  Charlie !  How  it  looks  ? — '  Died  12 


lo8  DREAM-LIFE. 

September,  18 —  Charles  Henry,  aged  foui? 
years.'  You  know  just  how  it  looks.  You 
have  turned  to  it  often ;  there,  you  seem 
to  be  joined  to  him,  though  only  by  the 
turning  of  a  leaf.  And  over  your  thoughts, 
as  you  look  at  that  page  of  the  record,! 
there  sometimes  wanders  a  vague  shadowy, 
fear,  which  will  come, — that  your  own' 
name  may  soon  be  there.  You  try  to  drop 
the  notion,  as  if  it  were  not  fairly  your 
own  ;  you  affect  to  slight  it,  as  you  would 
slight  a  boy  who  presumed  on  your  ac 
quaintance,  but  whom  you  have  no  desire 
to  know.  It  is  a  common  thing,  you  will 
find,  with  our  world,  to  decline  familiarity 
with  those  ideas  that  fright  us. 

Yet  your  mother — how  strange  it  is  ! — 
has  no  fears  of  such  dark  fancies.  Even 
now,  as  you  stand  beside  her,  and  as  the 
twilight  deepens  in  the  room,  her  low, 
silvery  voice  is  stealing  upon  your  ear,  tell 
ing  you  that  she  cannot  be  long  with  you ; 
— that  the  time  is  coming,  when  you  must 
be  guided  by  your  own  judgment,  and 
struggle  with  the  world,  unaided  by  the 
friends  of  your  boyhood.  There  is  a  little 
pride,  and  a  great  deal  more  of  anxiety  in 
your  thoughts  now, — as  you  look  stead 
fastly  into  the  home  blaze,  while  those  deli 
cate  fingers,  so  tender  of  your  happiness, 
play  with  the  locks  upon  your  brow. 


A  HOME  SCENE.  109 

— — To  struggle  with  the  world, — that 
is  a  proud  thing ;  to  struggle  alone, — there 
lies  the  doubt !  Then,  crowds  in  swift, 
upon  the  calm  of  boyhood,  the  first  anxious 
thought  of  youth ; — then  chases  over  the 
sky  of  Spring,  the  first  heated,  and  wrath 
ful  cloud  of  Summer  ! 

But  the  lamps  are  now  lit  in  the  little 
parlor,  and  they  shed  a  soft  haze  to  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  room;  while  the  fire 
light  streams  over  the  floor  where  puss  lies 
purring.  Little  Madge  is  there  ;  she  has 
dropped  in  softly  with  her  mother,  and 
Nelly  has  welcomed  her  with  a  bound,  and 
with  a  kiss.  Jenny  has  not  so  rosy  a  cheek 
as  Madge.  But  Jenny  with  her  love  notes, 
and  her  languishing  dark  eye,  you  think  of, 
as  a  lady ;  and  the  thought  of  her  is  a  con 
stant  drain  upon  your  sentiment.  As  for 
Madge — that  girl  Madge,  whom  you  know 
so  well, — you  think  of  her  as  a  sister  ;  and 
yet — it  is  very  odd, — you  look  at  her  far 
oftener  than  you  do  at  Nelly  ! 

Frank  too  has  come  in  to  have  a  game 
with  you  at  draughts  ;  and  he  is  in  capital 
spirits,  all  brisk  and  glowing  with  his  even 
ing's  walk.  He, — bless  his  honest  heart ! — 
never  observes  that  you  arrange  the  board 
very  adroitly,  so  that  you  may  keep  half  an 
eye  upon  Madge,  as  she  sits  yonder  beside 
Nelly.  Nor  does  he  once  notice  your  blush, 


1 10  DREA  M-L7FE. 

as  you  catch  her  eye.  when  she  raises  her 
head  to  fling  back  the  ringlets  ;  and  then, 
with  a  sly  look  at  you,  bends  a  most  earnest 
gaze  upon  the  board,  as  if  she  were  espe 
cially  interested  in  the  disposition  of  the 
men. 

You  catch  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  coquetry 
yourself — (what  a  native  growth  it  is  !)  and 
if  she  lift  her  eyes,  when  you  are  gazing  at 
her,  you  very  suddenly  divert  your  look  to 
the  cat  at  her  feet ;  and  remark  to  your 
friend  Frank,  in  an  easy,  off-hand  way — how 
still  the  cat  is  lying  ! 

And  Frank  turns — thinking  probably,  if 
he  thinks  at  all  about  it,  that  cats  are  very 
apt  to  lie  still,  when  they  sleep. 

As  for  Nelly,  half  neglected  by  your 
thought,  as  well  as  by  your  eye,  while  mis 
chievous  looking  Madge  is  sitting  by  her, 
you  little  know  as  yet,  what  kindness — what 
gentleness,  you  are  careless  of.  Few  loves 
in  life,  and  you  will  learn  it  before  life  is 
done,  can  balance  the  lost  love  of  a  sister. 

As  for  your  parents,  in  the  intervals  of 
the  game,  you  listen  dreamily  to  their  talk 
with  the  mother  of  Madge — good  Mrs. 
Boyne.  It  floats  over  your  mind,  as  you 
rest  your  chin  upon  your  clenched  hand, 
like  a  strain  of  old  familiar  music, — a  house 
hold  strain,  that  seems  to  belong  to  the 
habit  of  your  ear, — a  strain  that  will  linger 


A  HOME  SCEN5.  m 

about  it  melodiously  for  many  years  to 
come, — a  strain  that  will  be  recalled  long 
time  hence,  when  life  is  earnest  and  its 
cares  heavy,  with  tears  of  regret,  and  with 
sighs  of  bitterness. 

By  and  by  your  game  is  done ;  and  othef 
games,  in  which  join  Nelly  (the  tears  come 
when  you  write  her  name,  now  /)  and  Madge 
(the  smiles  come  when  you  look  on  her  then,') 
stretch  out  that  sweet  eventide  of  Home, 
until  the  lamp  flickers,  and  you  speak  your 
friends — adieu.  To  Madge,  it  is  said  boldly 
• — a  boldness  put  on  to  conceal  a  little  lurk 
ing  tremor ; — but  there  is  no  tremor  in  the 
home  good-night. 

— Aye,  my  boy,  kiss  your  mother — kiss 
her  again  ; — fondle  your  sweet  Nelly ; — 
pass  your  little  hand  through  the  gray 
locks  of  your  father ; — love  them  dearly, 
while  you  can !  Make  your  good-nights 
linger ;  and  make  your  adieus  long,  and 
sweet,  and  often  repeated.  Love  with  you* 
whole  soul, — Father,  Mother,  and  Sister; 
-  for  these  loves  shall  die  ! 

Not    indeed  in  thought : — God   be 

thanked  ! —  Nor  yet  in  tears, — for  He  is 
merciful !  But  they  shall  die  as  the  leaves 
die, — die  as  Spring  dies  into  the  heat,  and 
ripeness  of  Summer,  and  as  boy-hood  dies 
into  the  elasticity  and  ambition  of  youth. 
Death,  distance,  and  time,  shall  each  one 


112  DREAM-LIFE. 

of  them  dig  graves  for  your  affections-, 
but  this  you  do  not  know,  nor  can  know, 
until  the  story  of  your  life  is  ended. 

The  dreams  of  riches,  of  love,  of  voyage, 
of  learning,  that  light  up  the  boy-age  with 
splendor,  will  pass  on  and  over  into  the 
hotter  dreams  of  youth.  Spring  buds  and' 
blossoms  under  the  glowing  sun  of  April, 
nurture  at  their  heart  those  firstlings  of 
fruit,  which  the  heat  of  summer  shall 
ripen. 

You  little  know, — and  for  this  you  may 
well  thank  Heaven — that  you  are  leaving 
the  Spring  of  life,  and  that  you  are  floating 
fast  from  the  shady  sources  of  your  years, 
into  heat,  bustle,  and  storm.  Your  dreams 
are  now  faint,  flickering  shadows,  that  play 
like  fire-flies  in  the  coppices  of  leafy  June. 
They  have  no  rule,  but  the  rule  of  infantile 
desire.  They  have  no  joys  to  promise, 
greater  than  the  joys  that  belong  to  your 
passing  life ;  they  have  no  terrors,  but  such 
terrors  as  the  darkness  of  a  Spring  night 
makes.  They  do  not  take  hold  on  your  soul, 
as  the  dreams  of  youth  and  manhood  will  do. 

Your  highest  hope  is  shadowed  in  a 
cheerful,  boyish  home.  You  wish  no  friends 
but  the  friends  of  boyhood  ; — no  sister  but 
your  fond  Nelly  ; — none  to  love  better  than 
the  playful  Madge. 

You  forget,  Clarence,  that  the   Spring 


A  HOME  SCENE.  113 

with  you,  is  the  Spring  with  them ;  and 
that  the  storms  of  Summer  may  chace 
wide  shadows  over  your  path,  and  over 
theirs.  And  you  forget,  that  SUMMER  is 
even  now,  lowering  with  its  mist,  and  with 
its  scorching  rays,  upon  the  hem  of  your 
flowery  May ! 

The  hands  of  the  old  clock  upon  the 

mantel,  that  ticked  off  the  hours  when 
Charlie  sighed,  and  when  Charlie  died, 
draw  on  toward,  midnight.  The  shadows 
that  the  fire-flame  makes,  grow  dimmer  and 
dimmer.  And  thus  it  is,  that  Home,  boy- 
home,  passes  away  forever, — like  the  sway 
ing  of  a  pendulum, — like  the  fading  of  a 
shadow  on  the  floor  1 


SUMMER 

OR 

THE   DREAMS    OF   YOUTH. 


DREAMS  OF  YOUTH. 


SUMMER. 

I   FEEL  a  great   deal  of  pity  for  those 
honest,  but  misguided  people,  who  call 
their  little,  spruce  suburban  towns,  or  the 
shaded  streets  of  their  inland  cities, — the 
country  :  and  I  have  still  more  pity  for  those 
who  reckon  a  season  at  the  summer  resorts — 
country   enjoyment.     Nay,   my  feeling  is 
more   violent  than  pity  ;  and   I   count  it 
nothing  less  than  blasphemy,  so  to  take  the 
name  of  the  country  in  vain. 

I  thank  Heaven  every  summer's  day  of 
my  life,  that  my  lot  was  humbly  cast,  within 
the  hearing  of  romping  brooks,  and  beneath 
the  shadow  of  oaks.  And  from  all  the 
tramp,  and  bustle  of  the  world,  into  which 
fortune  has  led  me  in  these  latter  years  of 
my  life,  I  delight  to  steal  away  for  days, 
and  for  weeks  together,  and  bathe  my  spirit 
in  the  freedom  of  the  old  woods ;  and  to 
grow  young  again,  lying  upon  the  brook 


Ii8  DREAM-LIFE. 

side,  and  counting  the  white  clouds  that 
sail  along  the  sky,  softly  and  tranquilly— 
even  as  holy  memories  go  stealing  over  the 
vault  of  life. 

I  am  deeply  thankful  that  I  could  never 
find  it  in  my  heart,  so  to  pervert  truth,  as 
to  call  the  smart  villages  with  the  tricksy 
shadow  of  their  maple  avenues — the  Coun 
try. 

I  love  these  in  their  way ;  and  can  recall 
pleasant  passages  of  thought,  as  I  have  idled 
through  the  Sabbath-looking  towns,  or 
lounged  at  the  inn-door  of  some  quiet  New 
England  village.  But  I  love  far  better  to 
leave  them  behind  me  ;  and  to  dash  boldly 
out  to  where  some  out-lying  farm-house 
sits — like  a  witness — under  the  shelter  of 
"wooded  hills,  or  nestles  in  the  lap  of  a  noise- 
iess  valley. 

In  the  town,  small  as  it  may  be,  and 
darkened  as  it  may  be  with  the  shadows  of 
trees,  you  cannot  forget — men.  Their  voice, 
and  strife,  and  ambition  come  to  your  eye 
in  the  painted  paling,  in  the  swinging  sign 
board  of  the  tavern,  and — worst  of  all — in 
the  trim-printed  "ATTORNEY  AT  LAW." 
Even  the  little  milliner's  shop,  with  its 
meagre  show  of  leghorns,  and  its  string 
across  the  window,  all  hung  with  tabs  and 
with  cloth  roses,  is  a  sad  epitome  of  the 
great  and  conventional  life  of  a  city  neigh 
borhood. 


SUMMER.  119 

I  like  to  be  rid  of  them  all,  as  I  am  rid  of 
them  this  mid-summer's  day.  I  like  to 
steep  my  soul  in  a  sea  of  quiet,  with  nothing 
floating  past  me  as  I  lie  moored  to  my 
thought,  but  the  perfume  of  flowers,  and 
soaring  birds,  and  shadows  of  clouds. 

Two  days  since,  I  was  sweltering  in  the 
heat  of  the  City,  jostled  by  the  thousand 
eager  workers,  and  panting  under  the  shad 
ow  of  the  walls.  But  I  have  stolen  away ; 
and  for  two  hours  of  healthful  regrowth 
into  the  darling  Past,  I  have  been  lying  this 
blessed  summer's  morning,  upon  the  grassy 
bank  of  a  stream  that  babbled  me  to  sleep 
in  boyhood.  Dear,  old  stream,  unchang 
ing,  unfaltering, — with  no  harsher  notes 
now  than  then, — never  growing  old, — smil 
ing  in  your  silver  rustle,  and  calming  your 
self  in  the  broad,  placid  pools, — I  love  you, 
as  I  love  a  friend  ! 

But  now,  that  the  sun  has  grown  scalding 
hot,  and  the  waves  of  heat  have  come 
rocking  under  the  shadow  of  the  meadow 
oaks,  I  have  sought  shelter  in  a  chamber 
of  the  old  farm-house.  The  window-blinds 
are  closed ;  but  some  of  them  are  sadly 
shattered,  and  I  have  intertwined  in  them 
a  few  branches  of  the  late-blossoming,  white 
Azalia,  so  that  every  puff  of  the  summer 
air  comes  to  me  cooled  with  fragrance.  A 
dimple  or  two  of  the  sunlight  still  steals 


120  DREAM-LIFE. 

through  my  flowery  screen,  and  dances  (as 
the  breeze  moves  the  branches)  upon  the 
oaken  floor  of  the  farm-house. 

Through  one  little  gap  indeed,  I  can  see 
the  broad  stretch  of  meadow,  and  the  work 
men  in  the  field  bending  and  swaying  to 
their  scythes.  I  can  see  too  the  glistening 
of  the  steel,  as  they  wipe  their  blades ;  and 
can  just  catch  floating  on  the  air,  the 
measured,  tinkling  thwack  of  the  rifle  stroke. 

Here  and  there  a  lark,  scared  from  his 
feeding  place  in  the  grass,  soars  up,  bub 
bling  forth  his  melody  in  globules  of  silvery 
sound,  and  settles  upon  some  tall  tree,  and 
waves  his  wings,  and  sinks  to  the  swaying 
twigs.  I  hear  too  a  quail  piping  from  the 
meadow  fence,  and  another  trilling  his  an 
swering  whistle  from  the  hills.  Nearer  by, 
a  tyrant  king-bird  is  poised  on  the  top 
most  branch  of  a  veteran  pear-tree;  and 
now  and  then  dashes  down  assassin-like, 
upon  some  home-bound,  honey-laden  bee, 
and  then,  with  a  smack  of  his  bill,  resumes 
his  predatory  watch. 

A  chicken  or  two  lie  in  the  sun,  with  a 
wing  and  a  leg  stretched  out, — lazily  pick 
ing  at  the  gravel,  or  relieving  their  ennui 
from  time  to  time,  with  a  spasmodic  rustle 
of  their  feathers.  An  old,  matronly  hen 
stalks  about  the  yard  with  a  sedate  step ; 
and  with  quiet  self-assurance,  she  utters  an 


SUMMER.  i2i 

occasional  series  of  hoarse,  and  heated 
clucks.  A  speckled  turkey,  with  an  aston 
ished  brood  at  her  heels,  is  eyeing  curiously, 
and  with  earnest  variations  of  the  head,  a 
full-fed  cat,  that  lies  curled  up,  and  dozing, 
upon  the  floor  of  the  cottage  porch. 

As  I  sit  thus,  watching  through  the 
interstices  of  my  leafy  screen  the  various 
images  of  country  life,  I  hear  distant  mut- 
terings  from  beyond  the  hills. 

The  sun  has  thrown  its  shadow  upon  the 
pewter  dial,  two  hours  beyond  the  meridian 
line.  Great  cream-colored  heads  of  thun 
der  clouds  are  lifting  above  the  sharp,  clear 
line  of  the  western  horizon :  the  light 
breeze  dies  away,  and  the  air  becomes  sti 
fling,  even  under  the  shadow  of  my  with 
ered  boughs  in  the  chamber  window.  The 
white-capped  clouds  roll  up  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  sun  ;  and  the  creamy  masses 
below  grow  dark  in  their  seams.  The  mut- 
terings  that  came  faintly  before,  now  spread 
into  wide  volumes  of  rolling  sound,  that 
echo  again,  and  again,  from  the  eastward 
heights. 

I  hear  in  the  deep  intervals,  the  men 
shouting  to  their  teams  in  the  meadows ; 
and  great  companies  of  startled  swallows 
are  dashing  in  all  directions  around  the 
gray  roofs  of  the  barn. 

The  clouds  have  now  well  nigh  reached 


122  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  sun,  which  seems  to  shine  the  fiercer 
for  his  coming  eclipse.  The  whole  West, 
as  I  look  from  the  sources  of  the  brook, 
to  its  lazy  drift  under  the  swamps  that  lie 
to  the  South,  is  hung  with  a  curtain  of 
darkness  ;  and  like  swift -working,  golden 
ropes  that  lift  it  toward  the  Zenith,  long 
chains  of  lightning  flash  through  it ;  and 
the  growing  thunder  seems  like  the  rumble 
of  the  pulleys. 

I  thrust  away  my  azalia  boughs,  and  fling 
back  the  shattered  blinds  as  the  sun  and 
the  clouds  meet ;  and  my  room  darkens 
with  the  coming  shadows.  For  an  instant, 
the  edges  of  the  thick  creamy  masses  of 
cloud  are  gilded  by  the  shrouded  sun,  and 
show  gorgeous  scollops  of  gold,  \  hat  toss 
upon  the  hem  of  the  storm.  But  ihe  blaz 
onry  fades  as  the  clouds  mount ;  -and  the 
brightening  lines  of  the  lightning  dart  up 
from  the  lower  skirts,  and  heave  the  bil 
lowy  masses  into  the  middle  Heave.-ti. 

The  workmen  are  urging  their  oxen  fast 
across  the  meadow ;  and  the  loiterers  come 
straggling  after,  with  rakes  upon  their 
shoulders.  The  matronly  hen  has  retreated 
to  the  stable  door ;  and  the  brood  of  tur 
keys  stand,  dressing  their  feathers,  under 
the  open  shed. 

The  air  freshens,  and  blows  now  from 
the  face  of  the  coming  clouds.  I  s«e  the 


SUMMER.  133 

great  elms  in  the  plain  swaying  their  tops, 
even  before  the  storm  breeze  has  reached 
me ;  and  a  bit  of  ripened  grain  upon  a 
swell  of  the  meadow,  waves  and  tosses  like 
a  billowy  sea. 

Presently,  I  hear  the  rush  of  the  wind  ; 
and  the  cherry  and  pear  trees  rustle  through 
all  their  leaves ;  and  my  paper  is  whisked 
away  by  the  intruding  blast. 

There  is  a  quiet  of  a  moment,  in  which 
the  wind  even,  seems  weary  and  faint ;  and 
nothing  finds  utterance  save  one  hoarse 
tree-toad,  doling  out  his  lugubrious  notes. 

Now  comes  a  blinding  flash  from  the 
clouds  ;  and  a  quick,  sharp  clang  clatters 
through  the  heavens,  and  bellows  loud,  and 
long  among  the  hills.  Then, — like  great 
grief,  spending  its  pent  agony  in  tears — 
come  the  big  drops  of  rain  : — pattering  on 
the  lawn,  and  on  the  leaves,  and  most 
musically  of  all,  upon  the  roof  above  me ; 
— not  now,  with  the  light  fall  of  the  SPRING 
shower,  but  with  strong  steppings — like  the 
first  proud  tread  of  YOUTH  ! 


I. 

CLOISTER  LIFE. 

IT  has  very  likely  occurred  to  you,  my 
reader,  that  I  am  playing  the  wanton  in 
these  sketches  ;  —  and  am  breaking 
through  all  the  canons  of  the  writers,  in 
making  You  my  hero. 

It  is  even  so ;  for  my  work  is  a  story  of 
those  vague  feelings,  doubts,  passions, 
which  belong  more  or  less  to  every  man  of 
us  all ;  and  therefore  it  is,  that  I  lay  upon 
your  shoulders  the  burden  of  these  dreams. 
If  this  or  that  one,  never  belonged  to  your 
experience, — have  patience  for  a  while.  I 
feel  sure  that  others  are  coming,  which  will 
iie  like  a  truth  upon  your  heart ;  and  draw 
you  unwittingly — perhaps  tearfully  even — 
into  the  belief  that  You  are  indeed  my 
hero. 

The  scene  now  changes  to  the  cloister  of 

a  college ; — not  the  gray,  classic  cloisters 

which  lie  along  the  banks  of  the  Cam  or  the 

Isis — huge,  battered  hulks,  on  whose  weath- 

(124) 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  125 

er-stained  decks,  great  captains  of  learning 
have  fought  away  their  lives  ;  nor  yet  the 
cavernous,  quadrangular  courts,  that  sleep 
under  the  dingy  walls  of  the  Sorbonne. 

The  youth-dreams  of  Clarence,  begin 
under  the  roof  of  one  of  those  long,  un 
gainly  piles  of  brick  and  mortar,  which 
make  the  colleges  of  New  England. 

The  floor  of  the  room  is  rough,  and 
divided  by  wide  seams.  The  study  table 
does  not  stand  firmly,  without  a  few  spare 
pennies  to  prop  it  into  solid  footing.  The 
book-case  of  stained  fir-wood,  suspended 
against  the  wall  by  cords,  is  meagrely 
stocked,  with  a  couple  of  Lexicons,  a  pair 
of  grammars,  a  Euclid,  a  Xenophon,  a 
Homer,  and  a  Livy.  Beside  these,  are 
scattered  about  here  and  there, — a  thumb- 
worn  copy  of  British  ballads,  an  odd 
volume  of  the  Sketch  Book,  a  clumsy 
Shakspeare,  and  a  pocket  edition  of  the 
Bible. 

With  such  appliances,  added  to  the  half 
score  of  Professors  and  Tutors  who  preside 
over  the  awful  precincts,  you  are  to  work 
your  way  up  to  that  proud  entry  upon  our 
American  life,  which  begins  with  the 
Baccalaureate  degree.  There  is  a  tingling 
sensation  in  walking  first  under  the  shadow 
of  those  walls,  uncouth  as  they  are,  and  in 
feeling  that  you  belong  to  them ;— that  you 


ia6  DREAM-LIFE. 

are  a  member,  as  it  were,  of  the  body 
corporate,  subject  to  an  actual  code  of 
printed  laws,  and  to  actual  moneyed  fines — 
varying  from  a  shilling,  to  fifty  cents  ! 

There  is  something  exhilarating  in  the 
very  consciousness  of  your  subject  state; 
and  in  the  necessity  of  measuring  your 
hours  by  the  habit  of  such  a  learned  com 
munity.  You  think  back  upon  your  respect 
for  the  lank  figure  of  some  old  teacher  of 
boy  days,  as  a  childish  weakness :  even  the 
little  coteries  of  the  home  fire-side,  lose 
their  importance,  when  compared  with  the 
extraordinary  sweep,  and  dignity  of  your 
present  position. 

It  is  pleasant  to  measure  yourself  with 
men  ;  and  there  are  those  about  you,  who 
seem  to  your  untaught  eye,  to  be  men 
already.  Your  chum,  a  hard-faced  fellow 
of  ten  more  years  than  you, — digging 
sturdily  at  his  tasks,  seems  by  that  very 
community  of  work,  to  dignify  your  labor. 
You  watch  his  cold,  gray  eye  bending  down 
over  some  theorem  of  Euclid,  with  a  kind 
of  proud  companionship,  in  what  so  tasks 
his  manliness. 

It  is  nothing  for  him  to  quit  sleep  at  the 
first  tinkling  of  the  alarm  clock  that  hangs 
in  your  chamber ;  or  to  brave  the  weather, 
in  that  cheerless  run  to  the  morning  pray 
ers  of  winter.  Yet,  with  what  a  dreamy 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  127 

horror,  you  wake  on  mornings  of  snow,  to 
that  tinkling  alarum  ! — and  glide  in  the  cold 
and  darkness,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
college  walls  : — shuddering  under  the  sharp 
gusts  that  come  sweeping  between  the 
buildings  ; — and  afterward,  gathering  your- 
self  up  in  your  cloak,  to  watch  in  a  sleepy, 
listless  maze,  the  flickering  lamps  that  hang 
around  the  dreary  chapel !  You  follow 
half  unconsciously  some  tutor's  rhetorical 
reading  of  a  chapter  of  Isaiah ;  and  then, 
as  he  closes  the  Bible  with  a  flourish,  your 
eye,  half-open,  catches  the  feeble  figure  of 
the  old  Domine,  as  he  steps  to  the  desk, 
and  with  his  frail  hands  stretched  out  upon 
the  cover  of  the  big  book,  and  his  head 
leaning  slightly  to  one  side,  runs  through 
in  gentle  and  tremulous  tones,  his  wonted 
form  of  Invocation. 

Your  Division  room  is  steaming  with  foul 
heat,  and  there  is  a  strong  smell  of  burnt 
feathers,  and  oil.  A  jaunty  tutor  with  pug 
nose,  and  consequential  air,  steps  into 
the  room — while  you  all  rise  to  show  him 
deference, — and  takes  his  place  at  the  pul 
pit-like  desk.  Then  come  the  formal  loos 
ing  of  his  camlet  cloak  clasp, — the  opening 
of  his  sweaty  Xenophon  to  where  the  day's 
parasangs  begin, — the  unsliding  of  his  sil 
ver  pencil  case, — the  keen,  sour  look 
around  the  benches,  and  the  cool  pinch  of 


128  DREAM-LIFE. 

his  thumb  and  forefinger,  into  the  fearful 
box  of  names ! 

How  you  listen  for  each  as  it  is  uttered, 
— running  down  the  page  in  advance, — • 
rejoicing  when  some  hard  passage  comes 
to  a  stout  man  in  the  corner ;  and  what  a, 
sigh  of  relief — on  mornings  after  you  have 
been  out  late  at  night, — when  the  last  para 
graph  is  reached, — the  ballot  drawn,  and — • 
you,  safe ! 

You  speculate  dreamily  upon  the  faces 
around  you.  You  wonder  what  sort  of 
schooling  they  may  have  had,  and  what  sort 
of  homes.  You  think  one  man  has  got  an 
extraordinary  name;  and  another,  a  still 
more  extraordinary  nose.  The  glib,  easy  way 
of  one  student,  and  his  perfect  sang-froid, 
completely  charm  you  :  you  set  him  down 
in  your  own  mind  as  a  kind  of  Crichton. 
Another  weazen-faced,  pinched-up  fellow 
in  a  scant  cloak,  you  think  must  have  been 
sometime  a  school-master :  he  is  so  very 
precise,  and  wears  such  an  indescribable 
look  of  the  ferule.  There  is  one  big  student, 
with  a  huge  beard,  and  a  rollicking  good- 
natured  eye,  who  you  would  quite  like  to 
see  measure  strength  with  your  old  usher; 
and  on  careful  comparison,  rather  think  the 
usher  would  get  the  worst  of  it.  Another 
appears  as  venerable  as  some  fathers  you 
have  seen  ;  and  it  seems  wonderfully  odd, 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  1*9 

that  a  man  old  enough  to  have  children, 
should  recite  Xenophon  by  morning  candle 
light  ! 

The  class  in  advance,  you  study  curiously; 
and  are  quite  amazed  at  the  precocity  of 
certain  youths  belonging  to  it,  who  are 
apparently  about  your  own  age.  The  Ju 
niors  you  look  upon,  with  a  quiet  reverence 
for  their  aplomb,  and  dignity  of  character ; 
and  look  forward  with  intense  yearnings,  to 
the  time  when  you  too,  shall  be  admitted 
freely  to  the  precincts  of  the  Philosophical 
chamber,  and  to  the  very  steep  benches  of 
the  Laboratory.  This  last,  seems,  from 
occasional  peeps  through  the  blinds,  a 
most  mysterious  building.  The  chimneys, 
recesses,  vats,  and  cisterns — to  say  nothing 
of  certain  galvanic  communications,  which 
you  are  told,  traverse  the  whole  building— 
in  a  way  capable  of  killing  a  rat,  at  an 
incredible  remove  from  the  bland  professor, 
• — utterly  fatigue  your  wonder!  You 
humbly  trust — though  you  have  doubts 
upon  the  point — that  you  will  have  the 
capacity  to  grasp  it  all,  when  once  you  shall 
have  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a  Junior. 

As  for  the  Seniors,  your  admiration  for 
them  is  entirely  boundless.  In  one  or  two 
individual  instances,  it  is  true,  it  has  been 
broken  down,  by  an  unfortunate  squabble, 
witb  *"hick  set  fellows  in  the  Chapel  aisle. 

E 


130  DREAM-LIFE. 

A  person  who  sits  not  far  'nefor?  yot>  y 
prayers,  and  whose  name  yo%  seek  out  very 
early,  bears  a  strong  resemblance  to  some 
portrait  of  Dr.  Johnson ;  you  have  very 
much  the  same  kind  ol  respect  for  him,  that 
you  feel  for  the  great  lexicographer ;  and 
do  not  far  for  a  moment  doubt  his  capacity 
to  compile  a  Dictionary  equal  if  not  super 
ior  to  Johnson's. 

Another  man  with  very  bushy,  black  hair, 
and  an  easy  look  of  importance,  carries  a 
large:  cane  ;  and  is  represented  to  you,  as  an 
astonishing  scholar,  and  speaker.  You  do 
not  doubt  it ;  his  very  air  proclaims  it.  You 
think  of  him,  as,  presently — (say  four  or 
five  years  hence) — astounding  the  United 
States  Senate  with  his  eloquence.  And 
when  once  you  have  heard  him  in  debate, 
with  that  ineffable  gesture  of  his,  you  abso 
lutely  languish  in  your  admiration  for  him; 
and  you  describe  his  speaking  to  your  coun 
try  friends,  as  very  little  inferior,  if  any,  to 
Mr.  Burke's.  Beside  this  one,  are  some 
half  dozen  others,  among  whom  the  ques 
tion  of  superiority  is,  you  understand, 
strongly  mooted.  It  puzzles  you  to  think, 
what  an  avalanche  of  talent  will  fall  upon 
the  country,  at  the  graduation  of  those 
Seniors  ! 

You  will  find,  however,  that  the  country 
bears  such  inundations  of  college  talent, 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  131 

with  a  remarkable  degree  of  equanimity.  It 
is  quite  wonderful  how  all  the  Burkes,  and 
Scotts,  and  Peels,  among  college  Seniors, 
do  quietly  disappear,  as  a  man  gets  on  in 
life. 

As  for  any  degree  of  fellowship  with  such 
giants,  it  is  an  honor  hardly  to  be  thought 
of  But  you  have  a  classmate — I  will  call 
him  Dalton, — who  is  very  intimate  with  a 
dashing  Senior ;  they  room  near  each  other 
outside  the  college.  You  quite  envy  Dal 
ton,  and  you  come  to  know  him  well.  He 
says  that  you  are  not  a  'green-one/ — that 
you  have  'cut  your  eye  teeth'  ;  in  return 
for  which  complimentary  opinions,  you  en 
tertain  a  strong  friendship  for  Dalton. 

He  is  a  'fast'  fellow,  as  the  Senior  calls 
him ;  and  it  is  a  proud  thing  to  happen  at 
their  rooms  occasionally,  and  to  match 
yourself  for  an  hour  or  two  (with  the  win 
dows  darkened)  against  a  Senior  at  'old 
sledge.'  It  is  quite  'the  thing'  as  Dalton 
says,  to  meet  a  Senior  familiarly  in  the 
street.  Sometimes  you  go,  after  Dalton 
has  taught  you  'the  ropes,'  to  have  a  cosy 
sit-down  over  oysters  and  champagne ; — to 
which  the  Senior  lends  himself,  with  the 
pleasantest  condescension  in  the  world. 
You  are  not  altogether  used  to  hard  drink 
ing;  but  this,  you  conceal, — as  most  spirited 
young  fellows  do, — by  drinking  a  great  deal 


132  DREAM  LIFE. 

You  have  a  dim  recollection  of  cenmn 
circumstances — very  unimportant,  yet  very 
vividly  impressed  on  your  mind, — which 
occurred  on  one  of  these  occasions. 

The  oysters  were  exceedingly  fine,  and 
the  champagne — exquisite.  You  have  a 
recollection  of  something  being  said,  toward 
the  end  of  the  first  bottle,  of  Xenophon, 
and  of  the  Senior's  saying  in  his  playful 
•way, — '  Oh,  d — n  Xenophon  ! ' 

You  remember  Dalton  laughed  at  this ; 
and  you  laughed — for  company.  You  re 
member  that  you  thought,  and  Dalton 
thought,  and  the  Senior  thought — by  a  sin 
gular  coincidence,  that  the  second  bottle 
of  champagne  was  better  even  than  the  first. 
You  have adim  remembrance  of  the  Senior's 
saying  very  loudly,  "  Clarence — (calling  you 
by  your  family  name)  is  no  spooney  ;"  and 
drinking  a  bumper  with  you  in  confirmation 
of  the  remark. 

You  remember  that  Dalton  broke  out 
into  a  song,  and  that  for  a  time  you  joined 
in  the  chorus  ;  you  think  the  Senior  called, 
you  to  order  for  repeating  the  chorus,  in 
the  wrong  place.  You  think  the  lights 
burned  with  remarkable  brilliancy ;  and  you 
remember  that  a  remark  of  yours  to  that 
effect,  met  with  very  much  such  a  response 
from  the  Senior,  as  he  had  before  employed 
with  reference  to  Xenophon. 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  139 

You  have  a  confused  idea  of  calling 
Dalton — Xenophon.  You  think  the  meet 
ing  broke  up  with  a  chorus  ;  and  that  some 
body — you  cannot  tell  who — broke  two  or 
three  glasses.  You  remember  questioning 
yourself  very  seriously,  as  to  whether  you 
were,  or  were  not,  tipsy.  You  think  you. 
decided  that  you  were  not,  but — might  be. 

You  have  a  confused  recollection  of  lean 
ing  upon  some  one,  or  something,  going  to 
your  room ;  this  sense  of  a  desire  to  lean, 
you  think  was  very  strong.  You  remember 
being  horribly  afflicted  with  the  idea  of 
having  tried  your  night  key  at  the  tutor's 
door,  instead  of  your  own ;  you  remember 
further  a  hot  stove, — made  certain  indeed,, 
by  a  large  blister  which  appeared  on  your 
hand,  next  day.  You  think  of  throwing  off 
your  clothes,  by  one  or  two  spasmodic 
efforts, — leaning  in  the  intervals,  against 
the  bed-post. 

There  is  a  recollection  of  an  uncommon 
dizziness  afterward — as  if  your  body  was: 
very  quiet,  and  your  head  gyrating  with 
strange  velocity,  and  a  kind  of  centrifugal 
action,  all  about  the  room,  and  the  college, 
and  indeed  the  whole  town.  You  think 
that  you  felt  uncontrollable  nausea  after 
this,  followed  by  positive  sickness  ; — which 
waked  your  chum,  who  thought  you  very 
incoherent,  and  feared  derangement. 


134  DREAM-LIFE. 

A  dismal  state  of  lassitude  follows, 
broken  by  the  college  clock  striking  three, 
and  by  very  rambling  reflections  upon 
champagne,  Xenophon,  'Captain  Dick/ 
Madge,  and  the  old  deacon  who  clinched 
his  wig  in  the  church. 

The  next  morning — (ah,  how  vexatious 
that  all  our  follies  are  followed  by  a — '  next 
morning !')  you  wake  with  a  parched  mouth, 
and  a  torturing  thirst ;  the  sun  is  shining 
broadly  into  your  reeking  chamber. 
Prayers  and  recitations  are  long  ago  over; 
and  you  see  through  the  door,  in  the 
outer  room,  that  hard  faced  chum,  with 
his  Lexicon,  and  Livy,  open  before  him, 
working  out  with  all  the  earnestness  of  his 
iron  purpose,  the  steady  steps  toward  pre 
ferment,  and  success. 

You  go  with  some  story  of  sudden  sick 
ness  to  the  Tutor ; — half  fearful  that  the 
bloodshot,  swollen  eyes  will  betray  you, 
It  is  very  mortifying  too,  to  meet  Dalton 
appearing  so  gay,  and  lively  after  it  all, 
while  you  wear  such  an  air  of  being  'used 
up.'  You  envy  him  thoroughly  the  ex 
traordinary  capacity  that  he  has. 

Here  and  there  creeps  in,  amid  all  the 
pride  and  shame  of  the  new  life,  a  tender 
thought  of  the  old  home ;  but  its  joys  are 
joys  no  longer :  its  highest  aspirations 
even,  have  resolved  themselves  into  fine 
mist, — like  rainbows,  that  the  sun  drinks 
with  his  beams. 


CLOISTER  LIFE.  135 

The  affection  for  a  mother,  whose  kind 
ness  you  recal  with  a  suffused  eye,  is  not 
gone,  or  blighted ;  but  it  is  woven  up,  as 
only  a  single  adorning  tissue,  into  the 
growing  pride  of  youth  :  it  is  cherished  in 
the  proud  soul,  rather  as  a  redeeming 
weakness,  than  as  a  vital  energy. 

And  the  love  for  Nelly,  though  it  bates 
no  jot  of  fervor,  is  woven  into  the  scale  of 
growing  purposes,  rather  as  a  color  to 
adorn,  than  as  a  strand  to  strengthen. 

As  for  your  other  loves,  those  romantic 
ones,  which  were  kindled  by  bright  eyes, 
and  the  stolen  reading  of  Miss  Porter's 
novels,  they  linger  on  your  mind  like  per 
fumes  ;  and  they  float  down  your  memory, 
with  the  figure,  the  step,  the  last  words  of 
those  young  girls,  who  raised  them, — like 
the  types  of  some  dimly-shadowed,  but 
deeper  passion,  which  is  some  time  to  spur 
your  maturer  purposes,  and  to  quicken 
your  manly  resolves. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell,  for  you  do  not 
as  yet  know,  but  that  Madge  herself, — 
hoydenish,  blue-eyed  Madge,  is  to  be  the 
very  one  who  will  gain  such  hold  upon 
your  riper  affections,  as  she  has  held  al 
ready  over  your  boyish  caprice.  It  is  a 
part  of  the  pride, — I  may  say  rather  an 
evidence  of  the  pride,  which  youth  feels  in 
leaving  boyhood  behind  him,  to  talk  laugh 
ingly,  and  carelessly,  of  those  attachments 
Which  made  his  young  years  so  balmy  with 
dreams. 


II. 

FIRST  AMBITION. 

I  BELIEVE  that  sooner  or  later,  there 
come  to  every  man,  dreams  of  ambition. 
They  may  be  covered  with  the  sloth  of 
habit,  or  with  a  pretence  of  humility :  they 
may  come  only  in  dim,  shadowy  visions, 
that  feed  the  eye,  like  the  glories  of  an 
ocean  sun-rise;  but,  you  may  be  sure  that 
they  will  come  :  even  before  one  is  aware, 
the  bold,  adventurous  Goddess,  whose 
name  is  Ambition,  and  whose  dower  is 
Fame,  will  be  toying  with  the  feeble  heart. 
And  she  pushes  her  ventures  with  a  bold 
hand :  she  makes  timidity  strong,  and 
weakness  valiant. 

The  way  of  a  man's  heart,  will  be  fore 
shadowed  by  what  goodness  lies  in  him, — 
coming  from  above,  and  from  around  ; — but 
a  way  foreshadowed,  is  not  a  way  made. 
And  the  making  of  a  man's  way,  comes 
only  from  that  quickening  of  resolve,  which 
we  call  Ambition.  It  is  the  spur  that 


FIRST  AMBITION.      .  137 

makes  man  struggle  with  Destiny :  it  is 
Heaven's  own  incentive,  to  make  Purpose 
great,  and  Achievement  greater. 

It  would  be  strange  if  you,  in  that  cloister 
life  of  a  college,  did  not  sometimes  feel  a 
dawning  of  new  resolves.  They  grapple 
you  indeed,  oftener  than  you  dare  to  speak 
of.  Here,  you  dream  first  of  that  very 
sweet,  but  very  shadowy  success,  called 
reputation. 

You  think  of  the  delight  and  astonishment, 
it  would  give  your  mother  and  father,  and 
most  of  all,  little  Nelly,  if  you  were  winning 
such  honors,  as  now  escape  you.  You 
measure  your  capacities  by  those  about  you, 
and  watch  their  habit  of  study ;  you  gaze 
for  a  half  hour  together,  upon  some  success 
ful  man,  who  has  won  his  prizes ;  and 
wonder  by  what  secret  action  he  has  done 
it.  And  when,  in  time,  you  come  to  be  a 
competitor  yourself,  your  anxiety  is  im 
mense. 

You  spend  hours  upon  hours  at  your 
theme.  You  write  ai.d  re-write;  and  when 
it  is  at  length  complete,  and  out  of  your 
hands,  you  are  harassed  by  a  thousand 
doubts.  At  times,  as  you  recal  your  hours 
of  toil,  you  question  if  so  much  has  been 
spent  upon  any  other ;  you  feel  almost 
certain  of  success.  You  repeat  to  yourself, 
some  passages  of  special  eloquence,  at  night. 


138  .  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  fancy  the  admiration  of  the  Professors 
at  meeting  with  such  wonderful  perform 
ance.  You  have  a  slight  fear  that  its 
superior  goodness  may  awaken  the  sus 
picion,  that  some  one  out  of  the  college- 
some  superior  man,  may  have  written  it, 
But  this  fear  dies  away. 

The  eventful  day  is  a  great  one  in  your 
calendar;  you  hardly  sleep  the  night  pre 
vious.  You  tremble  as  the  Chapel  bell  is 
rung ;  you  profess  to  be  very  indifferent,  as 
the  reading,  and  the  prayer  close ;  you  even 
stoop  to  take  up  your  hat, — as  if  you  had 
entirely  overlooked  the  fact,  that  the  old 
President  was  in  the  desk,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  declaring  the  successful  names. 
You  listen  dreamily  to  his  tremulous,  yet 
fearfully  distinct  enunciation.  Your  head 
swims  strangely. 

They  all  pass  out  with  a  harsh  murmur, 
along  the  aisles,  and  through  the  door  ways. 
It  would  be  well  if  there  were  no  disappoint 
ments  in  life  more  terrible  than  this.  It  is 
consoling  to  express  very  deprecating  opin- 
ions  of  the  Faculty  in  general ; — and  very 
contemptuous  ones  of  that  particular  officer 
who  decided  upon  the  merit  of  the  prize 
themes.  An  evening  or  two  at  Dalton's 
room  go  still  farther  toward  healing  the 
disappointment;  and — if  it  must  be  said  — 
toward  moderating  the  heat  of  your  ambi 
tion. 


FIRST  AMBITION.  139 

You  grow  up  however,  unfortunately,  as 
the  College  years  fly  by,  into  a  very  exag 
gerated  sense  of  your  own  capacities.  Even 
the  good,  old,  white-haired  Squire,  for  whom 
you  had  once  entertained  so  much  respect, 
seems  to  your  crazy,  classic  fancy,  a  very 
hum-drum  sort  of  personage.  Frank,  al 
though  as  noble  a  fellow  as  ever  sat  a 
horse,  is  yet — you  cannot  help  thinking — 
very  ignorant  of  Euripides  ;  even  the  Eng 
lish  master  at  Dr.  Bidlow's  school,  you 
feel  sure  would  balk  at  a  dozen  problems 
you  could  give  him. 

You  get  an  exalted  idea  of  that  uncertain 
quality,  which  turns  the  heads  of  a  vast 
many  of  your  fellows,  called — Genius.  An 
odd  notion  seems  to  be  inherent  in  the  at 
mosphere  of  those  College  chambers,  that 
there  is  a  certain  faculty  of  mind — first 
developed  as  would  seem  in  Colleges, — 
which  accomplishes  whatever  it  chooses, 
without  any  special  pains-taking.  For  a 
time,  you  fall  yourself  into  this  very  un 
fortunate  hallucination ;  you  cultivate  it, 
after  the  usual  college  fashion,  by  drinking 
a  vast  deal  of  strong  coffee,  and  whiskey 
toddy, — by  writing  a  little  poor  verse,  in 
the  Byronic  temper,  and  by  studying  very 
late  at  night,  with  closed  blinds. 

It  costs  you,  however,  more  anxiety  and 
hypocrisy  than  you  could  possibly  have 
believed. 


140  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  will  learn,  Clarence,  when  the 

Autumn  has  rounded  your  hopeful  Summer, 
if  not  before,  that  there  is  no  Genius  in 
life,  like  the  Genius  of  energy  and  industry. 
You  will  learn  that  all  the  traditions  so 
current  among  very  young  men,  that  cer 
tain  great  characters  have  wrought  their 
greatness  by  an  inspiration  as  it  were,  grow 
out  of  a  sad  mistake. 

And  you  will  further  find,  when  you  come 
to  measure  yourself  with  men,  that  there 
are  no  rivals  so  formidable,  as  those  earnest, 
determined  minds,  which  reckon  the  value 
of  every  hour,  and  which  achieve  eminence 
by  persistent  application. 

Literary  ambition  may  inflame  you  at 
certain  periods ;  and  a  thought  of  some 
great  names  will  flash  like  a  spark  into  the 
mine  of  your  purposes  ;  you  dream  till  mid 
night  over  books ;  you  set  up  shadows, 
and  chase  them  down — other  shadows,  and 
they  fly.  Dreaming  will  never  catch  them. 
Nothing  makes  the  'scent  lie  well/  in  the 
hunt  after  distinction,  but  labor. 

And  it  is  a  glorious  thing,  when  once  you 
are  weary  of  the  dissipation,  and  the  ennui 
of  your  own  aimless  thought,  to  take  up 
some  glowing  page  of  an  earnest  thinker, 
and  read — deep  and  long,  until  you  fee.1  the 
metal  of  his  thought  tinkling  on  your  brain, 
and  striking  out  from  your  flinty  lethargy, 


FIRST  AMBITION.  141 

flashes  of  ideas,  that  give  the  mind  light 
and  heat.  And  away  you  go,  in  the  chase 
of  what  the  soul  within,  is  creating  on  the 
instant,  and  you  wonder  at  the  fecundity 
of  what  seemed  so  barren,  and  at  the  ripe« 
ness  of  what  seemed  so  crude.  The  glow 
of  toil  wakes  you  to  the  consciousness  of 
/our  real  capacities  :  you  feel  sure  that  they 
nave  taken  a  new  step  toward  final  develop 
ment.  In  such  mood  it  is,  that  one  feels 
grateful  to  the  musty  tomes,  which  at  other 
hours,  stand  like  curiosity-making  mum 
mies,  with  no  warmth,  and  no  vitality 
Now  they  grow  into  the  affections  like  new 
found  friends ;  and  gain  a  hold  upon  the 
heart,  and  light  a  fire  in  the  brain,  that  the 
years  and  the  mould  cannot  cover,  nor 
quench. 


HI. 

COLLEGE   ROMANCE. 

IN  following  the  mental  vagaries  of  youth, 
I  must  not  forget  the  curvedngs  and 
wiltings  of  the  heart.  The  black-eyed 
Jenny,  with  whom  a  correspondence  at  red 
heat,  was  kept  up  for  several  weeks,  is  long 
before  this,  entirely  out  of  your  regard  ; — • 
not  so  much  by  reason  of  the  six  months 
disparity  of  age,  as  from  the  fact,  com 
municated  quite  confidentially  by  the 
travelled  Nat,  that  she  has  had  a  desperate 
flirtation  with  a  handsome  midshipman. 
The  conclusion  is  natural,  that  she  is  an 
inconstant,  cruel-hearted  creature,  with  lit 
tle  appreciation  of  real  worth  ;  and  further 
more,  that  all  midshipmen  are  a  very  con 
temptible,  not  to  say, — dangerous  set  of 
men.  She  is  consigned  to  forgetfulness 
and  neglect  ;  and  the  late  lover  has  long 
ago  consoled  himself,  by  reading  in  a 
spirited  way,  that  passage  of  Childe  Harold, 
commencing, — 

(142) 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  143 

I  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me. 

As  for  Madge,  the  memory  of  her  has 
been  more  wakeful,  but  less  violent.  To 
say  nothing  of  occasional  returns  to  the  old 
homestead  when  you  have  met  her,  Nelly's 
letters  not  unfrequently  drop  a  careless 
half-sentence,  that  keeps  her  strangely  in 
mind. 

'Madge,'  she  says,  '  is  sitting  by  me 
with  her  work  ; '  or,  '  you  ought  to  see  the 
little,  silk  purse  that  Madge  is  knitting  ; ' 
or,  speaking  of  some  country  rout — '  Madge 
was  there  in  the  sweetest  dress  you  can 
imagine.'  All  this  will  keep  Madge  in 
mind  ;  not  it  is  true  in  the  ambitious  moods, 
or  in  the  frolics  with  Dalton  ;  but  in  those 
odd  half  hours  that  come  stealing  over  one 
at  twilight,  laden  with  sweet  memories,  of 
the  days  of  old. 

A  new  Romantic  admiration  is  started  by 
those  pale  lady-faces  which  light  up,  on  a 
Sunday,  the  gallery  of  the  college  chapel. 
An  amiable  and  modest  fancy,  gives  to  them 
all  a  sweet  classic  grace.  Tha  very  atmos 
phere  of  those  courts,  wakened  with  high 
metaphysic  discourse,  seems  to  lend  them 
a  Greek  beauty,  and  finesse-  and  you 
attach  to  the  prettiest  that  yovr  eye  can 
reach,  all  the  charms  of  some  Sciote  maiden, 
and  all  the  learning  of  her  father — the 
Professor.  And  as  you  lie  half-wakeful, 


144  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  half-dreaming,  through  the  long  Divi 
sions  of  the  Doctor's  morning  discourse, 
the  twinkling  eyes  in  some  corner  of  the 
gallery,  bear  you  pleasant  company,  as  you 
float  down  those  streaming  visions,  which 
radiate  from  you,  far  over  the  track  of  the 
'joming  life. 

But  following  very  closely  upon  this, 
comes  a  whole  volume  of  street  romance. 
There  are  prettily  shaped  figures  that  go 
floating,  at  convenient  hours  for  college 
observation,  along  the  thoroughfares  of  the 
town.  And  these  figures  come  to  be  known, 
and  the  dresses,  and  the  streets ;  and  even 
the  door-plate  is  studied.  The  hours  are 
ascertained,  by  careful  observation,  and  in 
duction,  at  which  some  particular  figure  is 
to  be  met ;  or  is  to  be  seen  at  some  low 
parlor  window,  in  white  summer  dress, 
with  head  leaning  on  the  hand, — very  melan 
choly,  and  very  dangerous.  Perhaps  her 
very  card  is  stuck  proudly  into  a  corner  of 
the  mirror,  in  the  college  chamber.  After 
this  may  come  moonlight  meetings  at  the 
gate,  or  long  listenings  to  the  plaintive 
lyrics  that  steal  out  of  the  parlor  windows, 
and  that  blur  wofully  the  text  of  the  Conic 
Sections. 

Or,  perhaps  she  is  under  the  fierce  eye 
of  some  Cerberus  of  a  school  mistress, 
about  whose  grounds  you  prowl  piteously, 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  145 

searching  for  small  knot  holes  in  the  sur 
rounding  board-fence,  through  which  little 
souvenirs  of  impassioned  feeling  may  be 
thrust.  Sonnets  are  written  for  the  town 
papers,  full  of  telling  phrases,  and  with 
classic  allusions,  and  foot  notes,  which  draw 
attention  to  some  similar  felicity  of  expres 
sion  in  Horace,  or  Ovid.  Correspondence 
may  even  be  ventured  on,  enclosing  locks 
of  hair,  and  interchanging  rings,  and  paper 
caths  of  eternal  fidelity. 

But  the  old  Cerberus  is  very  wakeful: 
the  letters  fail :  the  lamp  that  used  to 
glimmer  for  a  sign  among  the  sycamores, 
is  gone  out :  a  stolen  wave  of  a  handker 
chief, — a  despairing  look, — and  tears,  which 
you  fancy,  but  do  not  see, — make  you  mis 
erable  for  long  days. 

The  tyrant  teacher,  with  no  trace  of 
compassion  in  her  withered  heart,  reports 
you  to  the  college  authorities.  There  is  a 
long  lecture  of  admonition  upon  the  folly 
of  such  dangerous  practices ;  and  if  the 
offence  be  aggravated  by  some  recent  jovi 
ality  with  Dalton  and  the  Senior,  you  are 
condemned  to  a  month  of  exile  with  a  coun 
try  clergyman.  There  are  a  few  tearful  re 
grets  over  the  painful  tone  of  the  home 
letters  ;  but  the  bracing  country  air,  and  the 
pretty  faces  of  the  village  girls  heal  your 
heart, — with  fresh  wounds. 


146  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  old  Doctor  sees  dimly  through  his 
spectacles  ;  and  his  pew  gives  a  good  look 
out  upon  the  smiling  choir  of  singers.  A 
collegian  wears  the  honors  of  a  stranger ; 
and  the  country  bucks  stand  but  poor  chance 
in  contrast  with  your  wonderful  attainments 
in  cravats  and  verses.  But  this  fresh  dream, 
odorous  with  its  memories  of  sleigh  rides, 
or  lilac  blossoms,  slips  by,  and  yields  again 
to  the  more  ambit  ions  dreams  of  the  cloister. 

In  the  prouder  moments  that  come,  when 
you  are  more  a  man,  and  less  a  boy — with 
more  of  strategy  and  less  of  faith — your 
thought  of  woman  runs  loftily :  not  loftily 
in  the  realm  of  virtue  or  goodness,  but 
loftily  on  your  new  world-scale.  The  pride 
of  intellect  that  is  thirsting  in  you,  fashions 
ideal  graces  after  a  classic  model.  The 
heroines  of  fable  are  admired ;  and  the 
soul  is  tortured  with  that  intensity  of  pas 
sion,  which  gleams  through  the  broken 
utterances  of  Grecian  tragedy. 

In  the  vanity  of  self-consciousness,  one 
feels  at  a  long  remove  above  the  ordinary 
love  and  trustfulness  of  a  simple  and  pure 
heart.  You  turn  away  from  all  such  with 
a  sigh  of  conceit,  to  graze  on  that  lofty,  but 
bitter  pasturage,  where  no  daisies  grow. 
Admiration  may  be  called  up  by  some 
graceful  figure  that  you  see  moving  under 
those  sweeping  elms ;  and  you  follow  it 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE,  147 

with  an  intensity  of  look  that  makes  you 
blush  ;  and  straightway,  hide  the  memory 
of  the  blush,  by  summing  up  some  artful 
sophistry,  that  resolves  your  delighted  gaze 
into  a  weakness,  and  your  contempt  into  a 
virtue. 

But  this  cannot  last.  As  the  years  drop 
off,  a  certain  pair  of  eyes  beam  one  day  upon 
you,  that  seem  to  have  been  cut  out  of  a 
page  of  Greek  poetry.  They  have  all  its 
sentiment,  its  fire,  its  intellectual  reaches : 
it  would  be  hard  to  say  what  they  have  not. 
The  profile,  is  a  Greek  profile ;  and  the 
heavy  chestnut  hair  is  plaited  in  Greek 
bands.  The  figure  too,  might  easily  be  that 
of  Helen,  or  of  Andromache. 

You  gaze — ashamed  to  gaze ;  and  your 
heart  yearns — ashamed  of  its  yearning.  It 
is  no  young  girl,  who  is  thus  testing  you : 
there  is  too  much  pride  for  that.  A  ripeness, 
and  maturity  rest  upon  her  look,  and  figure, 
that  completely  fill  up  that  ideal,  which  ex 
aggerated  fancies  have  wrought  out  of  the 
Grecian  heaven.  The  vision  steals  upon 
you  at  all  hours, — now  rounding  its  flowing 
outline  to  the  mellifluous  metre  of  Epic 
Hexameter,  and  again,  with  its  bounding 
life,  pulsating  with  the  glorious  dashes  of 
tragic  verse. 

Yet,  with  the  exception  of  stolen  glances, 
and  secret  admiration,  you  keep  aloof. 


148  DREAM-LIFE. 

There  is  no  wish  to  fathom  what  seems  a 
happy  mystery.  There  lies  a  content  in 
secret  obeisance.  Sometimes  it  shames 
you,  as  your  mind  glows  with  its  fancied 
dignity  ;  but  the  heart  thrusts  in  its  voice; 
and  yielding  to  it,  you  dream  dreams,  like 
fond,  old  Boccacio's,  upon  the  olive-shaded 
slopes  of  Italy.  The  tongue  even,  is  not 
trusted  with  the  thoughts  that  are  seething 
within  :  they  begin  and  end  in  the  voice-' 
less  pulsations  of  your  nature. 

After  a  time, — it  seems  a  long  time,  but 
it  is  in  truth,  a  very  short  time, — you  find 
who  she  is,  who  is  thus  entrancing  you. 
It  is  done  most  carelessly.  No  creature 
could  imagine  that  you  felt  any  interest  in 
the  accomplished  sister — of  your  friend 
Dalton.  Yet  it  is  even  she,  who  has  thus 
beguiled  you  ;  and  she  is  at  least  some  ten 
years  Dalton's  senior ;  and  by  even  more 
years, — your  own  ! 

It  is  singular  enough,  but  it  is  true, — that 
the  affections  of  that  transition  state  from 
youth  to  manliness,  run  toward  the  types 
of  maturity.  The  mind  in  its  reaches  to 
ward  strength,  and  completeness,  creates  a 
heart-sympathy — which,  in  its  turn,  craves 
fullness.  There  is  a  vanity  too  about  the 
first  steps  of  manly  education,  which  is 
disposed  to  under-rate  the  innocence,  and 
unripened  judgment  of  the  other  sex. 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  149 

Men  see  the  mistake,  as  they  grow  older ; — 
for  the  judgment  of  a  woman,  in  all 
matters  of  the  affections,  ripens  by  ten  years, 
faster  than  a  man's. 

In  place  of  any  relentings  on  such  score, 
you  are  set  on  fire  anew.  The  stories  of 
ner  accomplishments,  and  of  her  grace  of 
conversation,  absolutely  drive  you  mad. 
You  watch  your  occasion  for  meeting  her 
upon  the  street.  You  wonder  if  she  has 
any  conception  of  your  capacity  for  mental 
labor ;  and  if  she  has  any  adequate  idea 
of  your  admiration  for  Greek  poetry,  and 
for  herself  ? 

You  tie  your  cravat  poet-wise,  and  wear 
broad  collars,  turned  down,  wondering  how 
such  disposition  may  affect  her.  Her  figure 
and  step  become  a  kind  of  moving  romance 
to  you,  drifting  forward,  and  outward  into 
that  great  land  of  dreams,  which  you  call 
the  world.  When  you  see  her  walking  with 
others,  you  pity  her ;  and  feel  perfectly  sure 
that  if  she  had  only  a  hint  of  that  intellectual 
fervor  which  in  your  own  mind,  blazes  up 
at  the  very  thought  of  her.  she  would  per 
fectly  scorn  the  stout  gentleman  who  spends 
his  force  in  tawdry  compliments. 

A  visit  to  your  home  wakens  ardor,  by 
contrast,  as  much  as  by  absence.  Madge, 
so  gentle,  and  now  stealing  sly  looks  at  you, 
in  a  way  so  different  from  her  hcydenish 


150  DREAM-LIFE. 

manner  of  school-days,  you  regard  compla 
cently,  as  a  most  lovable,  fond  girl — the 
very  one  for  some  fond  and  amiable  young 
man,  whose  soul  is  not  filled — as  yours  is — 
with  higher  things !  To  Nelly,  earnestly 
listening,  you  drop  only  exaggerated  hints 
of  the  wonderful  beauty,  and  dignity  of  this 
new  being  of  your  fancy.  Of  her  age,  you 
scrupulously  say  nothing. 

The  trivialities  of  Dalton  amaze  you; 
it  is  hard  to  understand  how  a  man  within 
the  limit  of  such  influences,  as  Miss  Dalton 
must  inevitably  exert,  can  tamely  sit  down 
to  a  rubber  of  whist,  and  cigars !  There 
must  be  a  sad  lack  of  congeniality  ;  it  would 
certainly  be  a  proud  thing  to  supply  that 
]ack ! 

The  new  feeling,  wild  and  vague  as  it  is, 
— for  as  yet,  you  have  only  most  casual  ac 
quaintance  with  Laura  Dalton, — invests  the 
whole  habit  of  your  study ;  not  quickening 
overmuch  the  relish  for  Dugald  Stewart,  or 
the  miserable  skeleton  of  college  Logic  ;  but 
spending  a  sweet  charm  upon  the  graces  of 
Rhetoric,  and  the  music  of  Classic  Verse. 
It  blends  harmoniously  with  your  quickened 
ambition.  There  is  some  last  appearance 
that  you  have  to  make  upon  the  College 
stage,  in  the  presence  of  the  great  worthies 
of  the  state,  and  of  all  the  beauties  of  the 
town, — Laura  chiefest  among  them.  In 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  151 

view  of  it,  you  feel  dismally  intellectual. 
Prodigious  faculties  are  to  be  brought  to 
the  task. 

You  think  of  throwing  out  ideas  that 
will  quite  startle  His  Excellency  the  Gov 
ernor,  and  those  very  distinguished  public 
characters,  whom  the  College  purveyors 
vote  into  their  periodic  public  sittings. 
You  are  quite  sure  of  surprising  them,  and 
of  deeply  provoking  such  scheming,  shallow 
politicians,  as  have  never  read  'Wayland's 
Treatise;'  and  who  venture  incautiously, 
within  hearing  of  your  remarks.  You  fancy 
yourself  in  advance,  the  victim  of  a  long 
Jeader  in  the  next  day's  paper  ;  and  the 
thoughtful,  but  quiet  cause  of  a  great 
change  in  the  political  programme  of  the 
State.  But  crowning  and  eclipsing  all  the 
triumph,  are  those  dark  eyes  beaming  on 
you  from  some  corner  of  the  Church  :  their 
floods  of  unconscious  praise  and  tenderness. 

Your  father  and  Nelly  are  there  to  greet 
^u.  He  has  spoken  a  few  calm,  quiet 
words  of  encouragement,  that  make  you 
feel — very  wrongfully — that  he  is  a  cold 
man,  with  no  earnestness  of  feeling.  As 
for  Nelly,  she  clasps  your  arm  with  a  fond 
ness,  and  with  a  pride,  that  tell  at  everv 
step,  her  praises  and  her  love. 

But  even  this,  true  and  healthful  as  it  is, 
fades  before  a  single  word  of  commenda 
tion  from  the  new  arbitress  of  your  feeling. 


152  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  have  seen  Miss  Dalton  !  You  hav«> 
met  her  on  that  last  evening  of  your  clois 
tered  life,  in  all  the  elegance  of  ball  cos 
tume  ;  your  eye  has  feasted  on  her  elegant 
figure,  and  upon  her  eye  sparkling  with  the 
consciousness  of  beauty.  You  have  talked 
with  Miss  Dalton  about  Byron, — about 
Wordsworth, — about  Homer.  You  have 
quoted  poetry  to  Miss  Dalton ;  you  have 
clasped  Miss  Dalton's  hand  ! 

Her  conversation  delights  you  by  its 
piquancy  and  grace ;  she  is  quite  ready  to 
meet  you  (a  grave  matter  of  surprise  !)  upon 
whatever  subject  you  may  suggest.  You 
lapse  easily  and  lovingly  into  the  current  of 
her  thought,  and  blush  to  find  yourself  va 
cantly  admiring,  when  she  is  looking  for 
reply.  The  regard  you  feel  for  her,  resolves 
itself  into  an  exquisite  mental  love,  vastly 
superior  as  you  think,  to  any  other  kind  of 
love.  There  is  no  dream  of  marriage  as 
yet,  but  only  of  sitting  beside  her  in  the 
moonlight,  during  a  countless  succession  of 
hours,  and  talking  of  poetry  and  nature, — • 
of  destiny,  and  love. 

Magnificent  Miss  Dalton  ! 

— And  all  the  while,  vaunting  youth  is 
almost  mindless  of  the  presence  of  that 
fond  Nelly,  whose  warm  sisterly  affection 
measures  itself  hopefully  against  the  proud 
associations  of  your  growing  years ;  and 


COLLEGE  ROMANCE.  153 

whose  deep,  loving  eye  half  suffused  with 
its  native  tenderness,  seems  longing  to  win 
you  back  to  the  old  joys  of  that  Home-love, 
which  linger  on  the  distant  horizon  of  your 
boy-hood,  like  the  golden  glories  of  a  sink 
ing  day. 

As  the  night  wanes,  you  wander,  for  a 
iast  look,  toward  the  dingy  walls,  that  have 
made  for  you  so  long  a  home.  The  old 
broken  expectancies,  the  days  of  glee,  the 
triumphs,  the  rivalries,  the  defeats,  the 
friendships,  are  recalled  with  a  fluttering  of 
the  heart,  that  pride  cannot  wholly  subdue. 
You  step  upon  the  Chapel-porch,  in  the 
quiet  of  the  night,  as  you  would  step  on 
the  graves  of  friends.  You  pace  back  and 
forth  in  the  wan  moonlight,  dreaming  of 
that  dim  life  which  opens  wide  and  long, 
from  the  morrow.  The  width  and  length 
oppress  you  :  they  crush  down  your  strug 
gling  self-consciousness,  like  Titans  deal 
ing  with  Pigmies.  A  single  piercing  thought 
of  the  vast  and  shadowy  future  which  is  so 
near,  tears  off  on  the  instant  all  the  gew 
gaws  of  pride, — strips  away  the  vanity  that 
doubles  your  bigness,  and  forces  you  down 
to  the  bare  nakedness  of  what  you  truly 
are  ! 

With  one  more  yearning  look  at  the  gray 
hulks  of  building,  you  loiter  away  under 
the  trees.  The  monster  elms  which  have 


154  DREAM-LIFE. 

bowered  your  proud  steps  through  four 
years  of  proudest  life,  lift  up  to  the  night 
their  rounded  canopy  of  leaves,  with  a 
quiet  majesty  that  mocks  you.  They  kiss 
the  same  calm  sky,  which  they  wooed  four 
years  ago;  and  they  droop  their  trailing 
limbs  lovingly  to  the  same  earth,  which 
has  steadily,  and  quietly,  wrought  in  them 
their  stature,  and  their  strength.  Only 
here  and  there,  you  catch  the  loitering 
foot-fall  of  some  other  benighted  dreamer, 
strolling  around  the  vast  quadrangle  of 
level  green,  which  lies  like  a  prairie-child, 
under  the  edging  shadows  of  the  town. 
The  lights  glimmer  one  by  one  ;  and  one 
by  one — like  breaking  hopes — they  fade 
away  from  the  houses.  The  full  risen  moon 
that  dapples  the  ground  beneath  the  trees, 
touches  the  tall  church  spires  with  silver ; 
and  slants  their  loftiness — as  memory 
slants  grief — in  long,  dark,  tapering  lines, 
upon  the  silvered  Green. 


IV. 

FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD. 

OUR  Clarence  is  now  fairly  afloat  upon 
the  swift  tide  of  Youth.     The  thrall 
of  teachers  is  ended,  and  the  audacity 
of  self-resolve  is  begun.     It  is  not  a  little 
odd,  that  when  we  have  least  strength  to 
combat   the  world,  we   have   the  highest 
confidence  in  our  ability. 

Very  few  individuals  in  the  world,  pos 
sess  that  happy  consciousness  of  their 
own  prowess,  which  belongs  to  the  newly 
graduated  Collegian.  He  has  most  abound 
ing  faith  in  the  tricksy  panoply  that  he  has 
wrought  out  of  the  metal  of  his  Classics. 
His  mathematics,  he  has  not  a  doubt,  will 
solve  for  him  every  complexity  of  life's 
questions  ;  and  his  logic  will  as  certainly 
untie  all  gordian  knots,  whether  in  poli 
tics  or  ethics. 

He  has  no  idea  of  defeat ;  he  proposes  to 
take  the  world  by  storm  ;  he  half  wonders 
that  quiet  people  are  not  startled  by  his 


156  DREAM-LIFE. 

presence.  He  brushes  with  an  air  of  im 
portance  about  the  halls  of  country  hotels; 
he  wears  his  honor  at  the  public  tables ;  he 
fancies  that  the  inattentive  guests  can  have 
little  idea  that  the  young  gentleman,  who 
so  recently  delighted  the  public  ear  with 
his  dissertation  on  the  "  General  tendency 
of  Opinion,"  is  actually  among  them  ;  and 
quietly  eating  from  the  same  dish  of  beef, 
and  of  pudding  ! 

Our  poor  Clarence  does  not  know — heav 
en  forbid  he  should  ! — that  he  is  but  little 
wiser  now,  than  when  he  turned  his  back 
upon  the  old  Academy,  with  its  gallipots 
and  broken  retorts  ;  and  that  with  the  addi 
tion  of  a  few  Greek  roots,  a  smattering  of 
Latin,  and  some  readiness  of  speech,  he  is 
almost  as  weak  for  breasting  the  strong 
current  of  life,  as  when  a  boy.  America 
is  but  a  poor  place  for  the  romantic  book- 
dreamer.  The  demands  of  this  new,  West 
ern  life  of  ours,  are  practical,  and  earnest. 
Prompt  action,  and  ready  tact,  are  the 
weapons  by  which  to  meet  it,  and  subdue 
it.  The  education  of  the  cloister  offers  at 
best,  only  a  sound  starting  point,  from  which 
to  leap  into  the  tide. 

The  father  of  Clarence  is  a  cool,  matter- 
of-fact  man.  He  has  little  sympathy  with 
any  of  the  romantic  notions  that  enthrall 
a  youth  of  twenty.  He  has  a  very  humble 


FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD.         157 

opinion — much  humbler  than  you  think  he 
ought — of  your  attainments  at  College. 
He  advises  a  short  period  of  travel,  that  by 
observation,  you  may  find  out  more,  how 
that  world  is  made  up,  with  which  you  are 
henceforth  to  struggle. 

Your  mother  half  fears  your  alienation 
from  the  affections  of  home.  Her  letters 
ail  run  over  with  a  tenderness  that  makes 
you  sigh,  and  that  makes  you  feel  a  deep 
\  eproach.  You  may  not  have  been  wanting 
in  the  more  ordinary  tokens  of  affection  ; 
you  have  made  your  periodic  visits  ;  but  you 
blush  for  the  consciousness  that  fastens  on 
you,  of  neglect  at  heart.  You  blush  for 
the  lack  of  that  glow  of  feeling,  which 
once  fastened  to  every  home-object. 

[Does  a  man  indeed  outgrow  affections  as 
his  mind  ripens?  Do  the  early  and  tender 
sympathies  become  a  part  of  his  intellect 
ual  perceptions,  to  be  appreciated  and  rea 
soned  upon,  as  one  reasons  about  truths  of 
science  ?  Is  their  vitality  necessarily  young  ? 
Is  there  the  same  ripe,  joyous  burst  of  the 
heart,  at  the  recollection  of  later  friend 
ships,  which  belonged  to  those  of  boyhood ; 
and  are  not  the  later  ones  more  the  sug 
gestions  of  judgment,  and  less,  the  abso 
lute  conditions  of  the  heart's  health  ?] 

The  letters  of  your  mother,  as  I  said, 
make  you  sigh  :  there  is  no  moment  in  our 


158  DREAM-LIFE. 

lives  when  we  feel  less  worthy  of  the  love 
of  others,  and  less  worthy  of  our  own  re 
spect,  than  when  we  receive  evidences  of 
kindness,  which  we  know  we  do  not  merit; 
and  when  souls  are  laid  bare  to  us,  and  we 
have  too  much  indifference  to  lay  bare  our 
own  in  return. 

"Clarence" — writes  that  neglected  moth 
er — "you  do  not  know  how  much  you  are 
in  our  thoughts,  and  how  often  you  are  the 
burden  of  my  prayers.  Oh,  Clarence,  I 
could  almost  wish  that  you  were  still  a  boy 
— still  running  to  me  for  those  little  favors, 
which  I  was  only  too  happy  to  bestow, — « 
still  dependent  in  some  degree  on  your 
mother's  love,  for  happiness. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  you  wrong,  Clarence,  but 
it  does  seem  from  the  changing  tone  of 
your  letters  that  you  are  becoming  more 
and  more  forgetful  of  us  all ; — that  you 
are  feeling  less  need  of  our  advice,  and — 
what  I  feel  far  more  deeply — less  need  of 
our  affection.  Do  not,  my  son,  forget  the 
lessons  of  home.  There  will  come  a  time, 
I  feel  sure,  when  you  will  know  that  those 
lessons  are  good.  They  may  not  indeed 
help  you  in  that  intellectual  strife  which 
soon  will  engross  you ;  and  they  may  not 
have  fitted  you  to  shine  in  what  are  called 
the  brilliant  circles  of  the  world  ;  but  they 
are  such,  Clarence,  as  make  the  heart  pure, 
and  honest,. and  strong! 


FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD.          159 

"  You  may  think  me  weak  to  write  you 
thus,  as  I  would  have  written  to  my  light- 
hearted  boy,  years  ago ; — indeed  I  am  not 
strong,  but  growing  every  day  more  feeble. 

"Nelly,  your  sweet  sister,  is  sitting  by 
me:  'Tell  Clarence,'  she  says,  'to  come 
home  soon.'  You  know,  my  son,  what 
hearty  welcome  will  greet  you ;  and  that 
whether  here,  or  away,  our  love  and  prayers 
will  be  with  you  always ;  and  may  God,  in 
his  infinite  mercy  keep  you  from  all  harm ! " 

A  tear  or  two, — brushed  away,  as  soon 
as  they  come, — is  all  that  youth  gives,  to 
embalm  such  treasure  of  love !  A  gay 
laugh,  or  the  challenge  of  some  companion 
of  a  day,  will  sweep  away  into  the  night, 
the  earnest,  regretful,  yet  happy  dreams, 
that  rise  like  incense  from  the  pages  of 
such  hallowed  affection. 

The  brusque  world  too  is  to  be  met,  with 
all  its  hurry  and  promptitude.  Manhood, 
in  our  swift  American  world,  is  measured 
too  much  by  forgetfulness  of  all  the  sweet 
liens  which  tie  the  heart  to  the  home  of  its 
first  attachments.  We  deaden  the  glow 
that  nature  has  kindled,  lest  it  may  lighten 
our  hearts  into  an  enchanting  flame  of 
weakness.  We  have  not  learned  to  make 
that  flame  the  beacon  of  our  purposes,  and 
the  warmer  of  our  strength.  We  are  men 
too  early. 


160  DREAM-LIFE. 

But  an  experience  is  approaching  Clar 
ence,  that  will  drive  his  heart  home  for 
shelter,  like  a  wounded  bird  ! 

It  is  an  autumn  morning,  with  such 

crimson  glories  to  kindle  it,  as  lie  along  the 
twin  ranges  of  mountain  that  guard  the 
Hudson.  The  white  frosts  shine  like 
changing  silk,  in  the  fields  of  late  growing 
clover ;  the  river  mists  curl,  and  idle  along 
the  bosom  of  the  water,  and  creep  up  the 
hill  sides  ;  and  at  noon,  float  their  feathery 
vapors  aloft,  in  clouds  ;  the  crimson  trees 
blaze  in  the  side  valleys,  and  blend  their 
vermillion  tints  under  the  fairy  hands  of 
our  American  frost-painters,  with  the  dark 
blood  of  the  ash  trees,  and  the  orange 
tinted  oaks.  Blue  and  bright,  under  the 
clear  Fall  heaven,  the  broad  river  shines 
before  the  surging  prow  of  the  boat,  like 
a  shield  of  steel. 

The  bracing  air  lights  up  rich  dreams  of 
life.  Your  fancy  peoples  the  valleys,  and 
the  hill-tops  with  its  creations ;  and  your 
hope  lends  some  crowning  beauty  of  the 
landscape,  to  your  dreamy  future.  The 
vision  of  your  last  college  year  is  not  gone.1 
That  figure  whose  elegance  your  eyes  then 
feasted  on,  still  floats  before  you  ;  and  the 
memory  of  the  last  talk  with  Laura,  is  as 
vivid,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday,  that  you 
listened.  Indeed,  this  opening  campaign 


FIRST  LOOK  A  T  THE  WORLD.         161 

of  travel, — although  you  are  half  ashamed 
to  confess  it  to  yourself, — is  guided  by  the 
thought  of  her. 

Dalton,  with  a  party  of  friends,  his  sister 
among  them,  are  journeying  to  the  north. 
A  hope  of  meeting  them — scarce  acknowl 
edged  as  an  intention — spurs  you  on.  The 
eye  rests  dreamily,  and  vaguely  on  the 
beauties  that  appear  at  every  turn :  they 
are  beauties  that  charm  you,  and  charm  you 
the  more  by  an  indefinable  association 
with  that  fairy  object  that  floats  before 
you,  half  unknown,  and  wholly  unclaimed. 
The  quiet  towns,  with  their  noon-day  still 
ness,  the  out-lying  mansions  with  their 
stately  splendor,  the  bustling  cities  with 
their  mocking  din.  and  the  long  reaches  of 
silent,  and  wooded  shore,  chime  with  their 
several  beauties  to  your  heart,  in  keeping 
with  the  master  key,  that  was  touched  long 
weeks  before. 

The  cool,  honest  advices  of  the  father, 
drift  across  your  memory  in  shadowy  forms, 
as  you  wander  through  the  streets  of  the 
first  northern  cities ;  and  all  the  need  for 
observation,  and  the  incentives  to  purpose, 
which  your  ambitious  designs  would  once 
have  quickened,  fade  dismally,  when  you 
find  that  she  is  not  there.  All  the  lax 
gaiety  of  Saratoga  palls  on  the  appetite : 
even  the  magnificent  shores  of  Lake 
F 


i6a  DREAM-LIFE. 

George,  though  stirring  your  spirit  to  an  in 
sensible  wonder  and  love,  do  not  cheat  you 
into  a  trance  that  lingers.  In  vain,  the  sun 
blazons  every  isle,  and  lights  every  shaded 
cove,  and  at  evening,  stretches  the  Black 
mountain  in  giant  slumber  on  the  waters. 

Your  thought  bounds  away  from  the 
beauty  of  sky  and  lake,  and  fastens  upon 
the  ideal  which  your  dreamy  humors 
cherish.  The  very  glow  of  pursuit  height 
ens  your  fervor  : — a  fervor  that  dims  sadly 
the  new-wakened  memories  of  home.  The 
southern  gates  of  Champlain,  those  fir- 
draped  Trosachs  of  America,  are  passed, 
and  you  find  yourself  upon  a  golden  even 
ing  of  Canadian  autumn,  in  the  quaint  old 
city  of  Montreal. 

Dalton,  with  his  party,  has  gone  down  to 
Quebec.  He  is  to  return  within  a  few  days, 
on  his  way  to  Niagara.  There  is  a  letter 
from  Nelly  waiting  you.  It  says  : — '  Mother 
is  much  more  feeble  :  she  often  speaks  of 
your  return,  in  a  way  that  I  am  sure,  if  you 
heard,  Clarence,  would  bring  you  back  tc 
us  soon.' 

There  is  a  struggle  in  your  mind  :  old  af 
fection  is  weaker  than  young  pride  and 
hope.  Moreover,  the  world  is  to  be  faced : 
and  new  scenes  around  you  are  to  be  studied. 
An  answer  is  penned  full  of  kind  remem 
brances,  and  begging  a  few  days  of  delay. 


FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD.          163 

You  wander,  wondering,  under  the  quaint 
old  houses,  and  wishing  for  the  return  of 
Dalton. 

He  meets  you  with  that  happy,  careless 
way  of  his — the  dangerous  way  which  some 
men  are  born  to, — and  which  chimes  easily 
to  every  tone  of  the  world  : — a  way  you 
wondered  at  once  ;  a  way,  you  admire  now, 
and  a  way,  that  you  will  distrust,  as  you 
come  to  see  more  of  men.  Miss  Dalton — 
(it  seems  sacrilege  to  call  her  Laura) — is 
the  same  elegant  being  that  entranced  you 
first. 

They  urge  you  to  join  their  party.  But 
there  is  no  need  of  urgence  :  those  eyes, 
that  figure,  the  whole  presence  indeed  of 
Miss  Dalton,  attract  you  with  a  power  which 
you  can  neither  explain,  nor  resist.  One 
look  of  grace  enslaves  you ;  and  there  is  a 
strange  pride  in  the  enslavement. 

— Is  it  dream,  or  is  it  earnest, — those 
moon-lit  walks  upon  the  hills  that  skirt  the 
city,  when  you  watch  the  stars,  listening  to 
her  voice,  and  feel  the  pressure  of  that 
jewelled  hand  upon  your  arm  ? — when  yoii 
drain  your  memory  of  its  whole  stock  of 
poetic  beauties,  to  lavish  upon  her  ear  ?  Is 
it  love,  or  is  it  madness,  when  you  catch  her 
eye,  as  it  beams  more  of  eloquence  than  lies 
in  all  your  moonlight  poetry,  and  feel  an 
exultant  gush  of  the  he.art,  that  makes  you 


164  DREAM- LIFE. 

proud  as  a  man,  and  yet  timid  as  u  boy, 
beside  her? 

Has  Dalton  with  that  calm,  placid,  non 
chalant  look  of  his,  any  inkling  of  the  rap 
tures,  which  his  elegant  sister  is  exciting  ? 
Has  the  stout,  elderly  gentleman  who  is  so 
prodigal  of  his  bouquets,  and  attentions,  any 
idea  of  the  formidable  rival  that  he  has 
found  ?  Has  Laura  herself — you  dream — 
any  conception  of  that  intensity  of  admira 
tion  with  which  you  worship  ? 

—Poor  Clarence  !  it  is  his  first  look  at 
Life! 

The  Thousand  Isles  with  their  leafy  beau 
ties,  lie  around  your  passing  boat,  like  the 
joys  that  skirt  us,  and  pass  us,  on  our  way 
through  life.  The  Thousand  Isles  rise  sud 
den  before  you,  and  fringe  your  yeasty 
track,  and  drop  away  into  floating  spectres 
of  beauty — of  haze — of  distance,  like  those 
dreams  of  joy,  that  your  passion  lends  the 
brain.  The  low  banks  of  Ontario  look  sul 
len  by  night ;  and  the  moon,  rising  tran 
quilly  over  the  tops  of  vast  forests  that 
stand  in  majestic  ranks  over  ten  thousand 
acres  of  shore-land,  drips  its  silvery  sparkles 
along  the  rocking  waters,  and  flashes  across 
your  foamy  wake. 

With  such  attendance,  that  subdues  for 
the  time  the  dreamy  forays  of  your  passion, 
you  draw  toward  the  sound  of  Niagara ;  and 


FIRST  LOOK  AT  THE  WORLD.          165 

its  distant,  vague  roar  coming  through  great 
aisles  of  gloomy  forest,  bears  up  your  spirit, 
like  a  child's,  into  the  Highest  Presence. 

The  morning  after,  you  are  standing  with 
your  party  upon  the  steps  of  the  Hotel. 
A  letter  is  handed  to  you.  Dalton  remarks 
in  a  quizzical  way,  that  '  it  shows  a  lady's 
hand.' 

"Aha,  a  lady!"  says  Miss  Dalton; — and 
so  gaily ! 

"A  sister,"  I  say  ;  for  it  is  Nelly's  hand. 

"By  the  by,  Clarence,"  says  Dalton,  "it 
was  a  very  pretty  sister,  you  gave  us  a 
glimpse  of  at  commencement." 

"  Ah,  you  think  so,"  and  there  is  some 
thing  in  your  tone,  that  shows  a  little 
indignation  at  this  careless  mention  of  your 
fond  Nelly ; — and  from  those  lips  !  It  will 
occur  to  you  again. 

A  single  glance  at  the  letter  Wanches 
your  cheek.  Your  heart  throbs : — throbs 
harder, — throbs  tumultuously.  You  bite 
your  lip ;  for  there  are  lookers  on.  But  it 
will  not  do.  You  hurry  away :  you  find 
your  chamber :  you  close  and  lock  the  door, 
and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears. 


A  BROKEN  HOME. 

IT  is  Nelly's  own  fair  hand,  yet  sadly 
blotted; — blotted  with  her  tears,  and 
blotted  with  yours. 

"  It  is  all  over,  dear,  dear  Clarence ! 

oh,  how  I  wish  you  were  hereto  mourn  with 
us !  I  can  hardly  now  believe  that  our 
poor  mother  is  indeed  dead." 

Dead ! — It  is  a  terrible  word.     You 

repeat  it,  with  a  fresh  burst  of  grief.  The 
letter  is  crumpled  in  your  hand.  Unfold 
it  again,  sobbing,  and  read  on. 

"  For  a  week,  she  had  been  failing  every 
day  ;  but  on  Saturday,  we  thought  her  very 
much  better.  I  told  her,  I  felt  sure  she 
would  live  to  see  you  again. 

'  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  Nelly,'  said 
she,  bursting  into  tears." 

Ah,  Clarence,  where  is  your  youth 
ful  pride,  and  your  strength  now  ? — with 
only  that  frail  paper  to  annoy  you,  crushed 
in  your  grasp ! 

(166) 


A  BROKEN  HOME.  167 

"She  sent  for  Father,  and  taking  his 
hand  in  hers,  told  him  she  was  dying.  I 
am  glad  you  did  not  see  his  grief.  I  was 
kneeling  beside  her,  and  she  put  her  hand 
upon  my  head,  and  let  it  rest  there  for  a 
moment,  while  her  lips  moved,  as  if  she 
were  praying. 

'  Kiss  me,  Nelly,'  said  she,  growing 
fainter  :  'kiss  me  again  for  Clarence.' 

"A  little  while  after  she  died." 

For  a  long  time  you  remain  with  only 
that  letter,  and  your  thought  for  company. 
You  pace  up  and  down  your  chamber : 
again  you  seat  yourself,  and  lean  your 
head  upon  the  table,  enfeebled  by  the  very 
grief,  that  you  cherish  still.  The  whole 
day  passes  thus :  you  excuse  yourself  from 
all  companionship :  you  have  not  the  heart 
to  tell  the  story  of  your  troubles  to  Dalton, 
— least  of  all,  to  Miss  Dalton.  How  is 
this  ?  Is  sorrow  too  selfish,  or  too  holy  ? 

Toward  night-fall  there  is  a  calmer,  and 
stronger  feeling.  The  voice  of  the  present 
world  comes  to  your  ear  again.  But  you 
move  away  from  it  unobserved  to  that 
stronger  voice  of  God,  in  the  Cataract. 
Great  masses  of  angry  cloud  hang  over  the 
West ;  but  beneath  them  the  red  harvest 
sun  shines  over  the  long  reach  of  Canadian 
shore,  and  bathes  the  whirling  rapids  in 
splendor.  You  stroll  alone  over  the  quak- 


168  DREAM- LIFE. 

ing  bridge,  and  under  the  giant  trees  of 
the  Island,  to  the  edge  of  the  British  Fall. 
You  go  out  to  the  little  shattered  tower, 
and  gaze  down  with  sensations  that  will 
last  till  death,  upon  the  deep  emerald  of 
those  awful  masses  of  water. 

It  is  not  the  place  for  a  bad  man  to  pon 
der:  it  is  not  the  atmosphere  for  foul 
thoughts,  or  weak  ones.  A  man  is  never 
better  than  when  he  has  the  humblest  sense 
of  himself :  he  is  never  so  unlike  the  spirit 
of  Evil,  as  when  his  pride  is  utterly  van 
ished.  You  linger,  looking  upon  the  stream 
of  fading  sunlight  that  plays  across  the 
rapids,  and  down  into  the  shadow  of  the 
depths  below,  lit  up  with  their  clouds  of 
spray  : — yet  farther  down,  your  sight  swims 
upon  the  black  eddying  masses,  with  white 
ribands  streaming  across  their  glassy  sur 
face  ;  and  your  dizzy  eye  fastens  upon  the 
frail  cockle  shells, — their  stout  oarsmen 
dwindled  to  pigmies, — that  dance  like  atoms 
upon  the  vast  chasm, — or  like  your  own 
weak  resolves  upon  the  whirl  of  Time. 

Your  thought,  growing  broad  in  the  view, 
seems  to  cover  the  whole  area  of  life ;  you 
set  up  your  affections  and  your  duties;  you 
build  hopes  with  fairy  scenery,  and  away 
they  all  go,  tossing  like-  the  relentless 
waters  to  the  deep  gulf,  that  gapes  a  hide 
ous  welcome !  You  sigh  at  your  weakness 


A  BROKEN  HOME.  169 

of  heart,  or  of  endeavor,  and  your  sighs 
float  out  into  the  breeze  that  rises  ever 
from  the  shock  of  the  waves,  and  whirl, 
empty-handed,  to  Heaven.  You  avow  high 
purposes,  and  clench  them  with  round  utter 
ance  ;  and  your  voice  like  a  sparrow's,  is 
caught  up  in  the  roar  of  the  fall,  and  thrown 
at  you  from  the  cliffs,  and  dies  away  in  the 
solemn  thunders  of  nature.  Great  thoughts 
of  life  come  over  you — of  its  work  and 
destiny — of  its  affections  and  duties,  and 
roll  down  swift — like  the  river — into  the 
deep  whirl  of  doubt  and  danger.  Other 
thoughts,  grander  and  stronger,  like  the 
continuing  rush  of  waters,  come  over  you, 
and  knit  your  purposes  together  with  their 
weight,  and  crush  you  to  exultant  tears, 
and  then  leap,  shattered  and  broken,  from 
the  very  edge  of  your  intent, — into  mists 
of  fear. 

The  moon  comes  out,  and  gleaming 
through  the  clouds,  braids  its  light,  fantas 
tic  bow  upon  the  waters.  You  feel  calmer 
as  the  night  deepens.  The  darkness  soft 
ens  you ;  it  hangs — like  the  pall  that 
shrouds  your  mother's  corpse, — low  and 
heavily  to  your  heart.  It  helps  your 
inward  grief,  with  some  outward  show.  It 
makes  the  earth  a  mourner  ;  it  makes  the 
flashing  water-drops  so  many  attendant 
mourners.  It  makes  the  Great  Fall  itself 
a  mourner,  and  its  roar — a  requiem. 


170  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  pleasure  of  travel  is  cut  short.  To 
one  person  of  the  little  company  of  fellow 
voyagers,  you  bid  adieu  with  regret ;  pride, 
love,  and  hope  point  toward  her,  while  all 
the  gentler  affections  stray  back  to  the 
broken  home.  Her  smile  of  parting  is  very 
gracious,  but  it  is  not  after  all,  such  smile 
AS  your  warm  heart  pines  for. 

Ten  days  after,  you  are  walking  toward 
the  old  homestead,  with  such  feelings  as  it 
never  called  up  before.  In  the  days  of 
boyhood,  there  were  triumphant  thoughts 
of  the  gladness,  and  the  pride,  with  which, 
when  grown  to  the  stature  of  manhood,  you 
would  come  back  to  that  little  town  of  your 
birth.  As  you  have  bent  with  your  dreamy 
resolutions  over  the  tasks  of  the  cloister 
life,  swift  thoughts  have  flocked  on  you  of 
the  proud  step,  and  prouder  heart,  with 
which  you  would  one  day  greet  the  old 
acquaintances  of  boyhood;  and  you  have 
regaled  yourself  on  the  jaunty  manner  with 
which  you  would  meet  old  Dr.  Bidlow;  and 
the  patronizing  air,  with  which  you  would 
address  the  pretty,  blue-eyed  Madge. 

It  is  late  afternoon  when  you  come  in 
sight  of  the  tall  sycamores  that  shade  your 
home  ;  you  shudder  now  lest  you  may  meet 
any  whom  you  once  knew.  The  first,  keen 
grief  of  youth  seeks  little  of  the  sympathy 
of  companions :  it  lies — with  a  sensitive 


A  BROKEN  HOME.  171 

man, — bounded  within  the  narrowest  circles 
of  the  heart.  They  only  who  hold  the  key 
to  its  innermost  recesses  can  speak  conso 
lation.  Years  will  make  a  change  ; — as  the 
summer  grows  in  fierce  heats,  the  balmi- 
ness  of  the  violet  banks  of  Spring,  is  lost 
in  the  odors  of  a  thousand  flowers ; — the 
heart,  as  it  gains  in  age,  loses  freshnesss 
but  wins  breadth. 

Throw  a  pebble  into  the  brook  at  its 

source,  and  the  agitation  is  terrible,  and 
the  ripples  chafe  madly  their  narrowed 
banks  ; — throw  in  a  pebble,  when  the  brook 
has  become  a  river,  and  you  see  a  few 
circles,  widening,  and  widening,  and  widen 
ing,  until  they  are  lost  in  the  gentle,  every 
day  murmur  of  its  life  ! 

You  draw  your  hat  over  your  eyes,  as 
you  walk  toward  the  familfar  door ;  the 
yard  is  silent ;  the  night  is  falling  gloomily ; 
a  few  katydids  are  crying  in  the  trees. 
The  mother's  window,  where — at  such  a 
season  as  this,  it  was  her  custom  to  sit 
watching  your  play,  is  shut;  and  the  blinds 
are  closed  over  it.  The  honeysuckle  which 
grew  over  the  window,  and  which  she  loved 
so  much,  has  flung  out  its  branches  care 
lessly;  and  the  spiders  have  hung  their 
foul  nets  upon  its  tendrils. 

And  she,  who  made  that  home  so  dear 
to  your  boyhood, — so  real  to  your  after 


172  DR^ AM- LIFE. 

years, — standing  amid  all  the  flights  of 
your  youthful  ambition,  and  your  paltry 
cares  (for  they  seem  paltry  now)  and  your 
doubts,  and  anxieties  and  weaknesses  of 
heart,  like  the  light  of  your  hope — burning 
ever  there,  under  the  shadow  of  the  syca 
mores, — a  holy  beacon,  by  whose  guidance 
you  always  came  to  a  sweet  haven,  and  to 

a  refuge  from  all  your  toils, — is  gone, 

gone  forever ! 

The  father  is  there  indeed; — beloved,  re 
spected,  esteemed  ;  but  the  boyish  heart, 
whose  old  life  is  now  reviving,  leans  more 
readily,  and  more  kindly  into  that  void, 
where  once  beat  the  heart  of  a  mother. 

Nelly  is  there ; — cherished  now  with  all 
the  added  love  that  is  stricken  off  from  her 
who  has  left  you  forever.  Nelly  meets  you 
at  the  door. 

"  Clarence ! " 

"  Nelly  !  " 

There  are  no  other  words ;  but  you  feel 
her  tears,  as  the  kiss  of  welcome  is  given. 
With  your  hand  joined  in  hers,  you  walk 
down  the  hall,  into  the  old,  familiar  room ; 
— not  with  the  jaunty,  college  step, — not 
with  any  presumption  on  your  dawning 
manhood, — oh,  no, — nothing  of  this! 

Quietly,  meekly,  feeling  your  whole  heart 
shattered,  and  your  mind  feeble  as  a  boy's, 
and  your  purposes  nothing,  and  worse  than 


A  BROKEN  HOME.  173 

nothing, — with  only  one  proud  feeling,  you 
fling  your  arm  around  the  form  of  that 
gentle  sister, — the  pride  of  a  protector; — 
the  feeling — "  /  will  care  for  you  now,  dear 
Nelly  !  " — that  is  all.  And  even  that,  proud 
as  it  is,  brings  weakness. 

You  sit  down  together  upon  the  lounge ; 
Nelly  buries  her  face  in  her  hands,  sobbing. 

"Dear  Nelly,"  and  your  arm  claops  her 
more  fondly. 

There  is  a  cricket  in  the  corner  of  the 
room,  chirping  very  loudly.  It  seems  as  if 
nothing  else  were  living — only  Nelly,  Clar 
ence,  and  the  noisy  cricket.  Your  eye  falls 
on  the  chair  where  she  used  to  sit ;  it  is 
drawn  up  with  the  same  care  as  ever, 
beside  the  fire. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Clarence,"  says 
Nelly,  recovering  herself ;  and  there  is  a 
sweet,  sad  smile  now.  And  sitting  there 
beside  you,  she  tells  you  of  it  all ; — of  the 
day,  and  of  the  hour  ; — and  how  she  looked, 
— and  of  her  last  prayer,  and  how  happy 
she  was. 

"  And  did  she  leave  no  message  for  me^ 
Nelly  ? " 

"  Not  to  forget  us,  Clarence ;  but  you 
could  not !  " 

"Thank  you,  Nelly  ;  and  was  there  noth 
ing  else?" 

"  Yes,  Clarence; — to  meet  her,  one  day  !" 


174  DREAM-LIFE. 

You  only  press  her  hand. 

Presently  your  father  comes  in :  he  greets 
you  with  far  more  than  his  usual  cordiality. 
He  keeps  your  hand  a  long  time,  looking 
quietly  in  your  face,  as  if  he  were  reading 
traces  of  some  resemblance,  that  had  never 
Struck  him  before. 

The  father  is  one  of  those  calm,  impas 
sive  men,  who  shows  little  upon  the  surface, 
and  whose  feelings  you  have  always 
thought,  cold.  But  now,  there  is  a  tremu- 
lousness  in  his  tones  that  you  never  remem 
ber  observing  before.  He  seems  conscious 
of  it  himself,  and  forbears  talking.  He 
goes  to  his  old  seat,  and  after  gazing  at  you 
a  little  while  with  the  same  steadfastness 
as  at  first,  leans  forward,  and  buries  his 
face  in  his  hands. 

From  that  very  moment,  you  feel  a  sym 
pathy,  and  a  love  for  him,  that  you  have 
never  known  till  then.  And  in  after  years, 
when  suffering  or  trial  come  over  you,  and 
when  your  thoughts  fly,  as  to  a  refuge,  to 
that  shattered  home,  you  will  recal  that 
stooping  image  of  the  father,  — with  his  head 
bowed,  and  from  time  to  time  trembling 
I  convulsively  with  grief, — and  feel  that  there 
1  remains  yet  by  the  household  fires,  a  heart 
of  kindred  love,  and  of  kindred  sorrow. 

Nelly  steals  away  from  you  gently,  and 
stepping  across  the  room,  lays  her  hand 


A  BROKEN  HOME.  175 

upon  his  shoulder,  with  a  touch,  that  says, 
as  plainly  as  words  could  say  it ; — "  We  are 
here,  Father!" 

And  he  rouses  himself, — passes  his  arm 
around  her; — looks  in  her  face  fondly, 
I- — draws  her  to  him,  and  prints  a  kiss  upon 
'her  forehead. 

"  Nelly,  we  must  love*  each  other  now, 
more  than  ever." 

Nelly's  lips  tremble,  but  she  cannot  an 
swer  ;  a  tear  or  two  go  stealing  down  her 
cheek. 

You  approach  them  ;  and  your  father 
takes  your  hand  again,  with  a  firm  grasp, — • 
looks  at  you  thoughtfully, — drops  his  eyes 
upon  the  fire,  and  for  a  moment  there  is  a 
pause; — "We  are  quite  alone,  now,  my 
boy!" 

It  is  a  Broken  Home  ! 


VI. 

FAMILY   CONFIDENCE. 

RIEF  has  a  strange  power  in  opening 

\ J     the  hearts  of  those  who  sorrow  in 

common.  The  father  who  has  seemed 
to  you,  not  so  much  neglectful,  as  careless 
of  your  aims,  and  purposes; — toward  whom 
there  have  been  in  your  younger  years, 
yearnings  of  affection,  which  his  chilliness 
of  manner  has  seemed  to  repress,  now  grows 
under  the  sad  light  of  the  broken  house 
hold,  into  a  friend.  The  heart  vfeels  a  joy, 
it  cannot  express,  in  its  freedom  to  love 
and  to  cherish.  There  is  a  pleasure  wholly 
new  to  you,  in  telling  him  of  your  youthful 
projects,  in  listening  to  his  questionings,  in 
seeking  his  opinions,  and  in  yielding  to  his 
judgment. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  for  the  child,  and  quite 
as  sad  for  the  parent,  when  this  confidence 
is  unknown.  Many  and  many  a  time,  with 
a  bursting  heart,  you  have  longed  to  tell 
him  of  some  boyish  grief,  or  to  ask  his 
(176) 


FAMILY  CONFIDENCE.  itf 

guidance  out  of  some  boyish  trouble ;  buf 
at  the  first  sight  of  that  calm,  inflexible  face/ 
and  at  the  first  sound  of  his  measured  words, 
— your  enthusiastic  yearnings  toward  his 
1  love,  and  his  councils,  have  all  turned  back 
upon  your  eager,  and  sorrowing  heart ;  and 
you  have  gone  away  to  hide  in  secret,  the 
tears,  which  the  lack  of  his  sympathy  has 
wrung  from  your  soul. 

But  now,  over  the  tomb  of  her,  for  whom 
you  weep  in  common,  there  is  a  new  light 
breaking ;  and  your  only  fear  is,  lest  you 
weary  him  with  what  may  seem  a  barren 
show  of  your  confidence. 

Nelly,  too,  is  nearer  now  than  ever ;  and 
with  her,  you  have  no  fears  of  your  extrav 
agance  ;  you  listen  delightfully  there,  by 
the  evening  flame,  to  all  that  she  tells  you 
of  the  neighbors  of  your  boyhood.  You 
shudder  somewhat  at  her  genial  praises  of 
the  blue-eyed  Madge  ; — a  shudder  that  you 
can  hardly  account  for,  and  which  you  do 
not  seek  to  explain.  It  may  be,  that  there 
is  a  clinging  and  tender  memory  yet — 
wakened  by  the  home  atmosphere — of  the 
divided  sixpence. 

Of  your  quondam  friend  Frank,  the 
pleasant  recollection  of  whom  revives  again 
under  the  old  roof-tree,  she  tells  you  very 
little ;  and  that  little  in  a  hesitating,  and 
indifferent  way  that  utterly  surprises  you. 


ryS  DREAM-LIFE. 

Can  it  be,  you  think,  that  there  has  been 
some  cause  of  unkindness  ? 

Clarence  is  still  very  young  ! 

The  fire  glows  warmly  upon  the  accus 
tomed  hearth-stone ;  and — save  that  vacant 
place,  never  to  be  filled  again — a  home 
cheer  reigns  even  in  this  time  of  your 
mourning.  The  spirit  of  the  lost  parent 
seems  to  linger  over  the  remnant  of  the 
household  ;  and  the  Bible  upon  its  stand  — 
the  book  she  loved  so  well — the  book  so 
sadly  forgotten, — seems  still  to  open  on 
you  its  promises,  in  her  sweet  tones ;  and 
to  call  you,  as  it  were,  with  her  angel  voice, 
to  the  land  that  she  inherits. 

And  when  late  night  has  come,  and  the 
household  is  quiet,  you  call  up  in  the  dark 
ness  of  your  chamber,  that  other  night  of 
grief,  which  followed  upon  the  death  of 
Charlie.  That  was  the  boy's  vision  of 
death ;  and  this  is  the  youthful  vision. 
Yet  essentially,  there  is  but  little  differ 
ence.  Death  levels  the  capacities  of  the 
living,  as  it  levels  the  strength  of  its  vic 
tims.  It  is  as  grand  to  the  man,  as  to  the 
boy  :  its  teachings  are  as  deep  for  age,  as 
for  infancy. 

You  may  learn  its  manner,  and  estimate 
its  approaches  ;  birj;  when  it  comes,  it  comes 
always  with  the  same  awful  front  that  it 
wore  to  your  boyhood.  Reason  and  Reve- 


FAMILY  CONFIDENCE.  179 

lation  may  point  to  rich  issues  that  unfold 
from  its  very  darkness ;  yet  all  these  are 
no  more  to  your  bodily  sense,  and  no  more 
to  your  enlightened  hope,  than  those  fore- 
shadowings  of  peace,  which  rest  like  a  halo, 
on  the  spirit  of  the  child,  as  he  prays  in 
guileless  tones, — OUR  FATHER,  WHO  ART  IN 
HEAVEN  ! 

It  is  a  holy,  and  a  placid  grief  that  comes 
over  you; — not  crushing,  but  bringing  to 
life  from  the  grave  of  boyhood,  all  its  bet 
ter  and  nobler  instincts.  In  their  light, 
your  wild  plans  of  youth  look  sadly  mis 
shapen  ;  and  in  the  impulse  of  the  hour 
you  abandon  them  ;  holy  resolutions  beam 
again  upon  your  soul  like  sunlight ;  your 
purposes  seem  bathed  in  goodness.  There 
is  an  effervescence  of  the  spirit,  that  carries 
away  all  foul  matter,  and  leaves  you  in  a 
state  of  calm,  that  seems  kindred  to  the  land 
and  to  the  life,  whither  the  sainted  mother 
has  gone. 

This  calm  brings  a  smile  in  the  middle 
of  tears,  and  an  inward  looking,  and  leaning 
toward  that  Eternal  Power  which  governs 
and  guides  us ; — with  that  smile  and  that 
leaning,  sleep  comes  like  an  angelic  minis 
ter,  and  fondles  your  wearied  frame,  and 
thought,  into  that  repose  which  is  the  mir 
ror  of  the  Destroyer. 

Poor  Clarence,  he  is  like  the  rest  of 

the  world, — whose  goodness  lies  chiefly  in 


i8o  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  occasional  throbs  of  a  better  nature, 
which  soon  subside,  and  leave  them  upon 
the  old  level  of  desire. 

As  you  lie  between  waking  and  sleeping, 
you  have  a  fancy  of  a  sound  at  your  door ; 
— it  seems  to  open  softly ;  and  the  tall  fig 
ure  of  your  father  wrapped  in  his  dressing- 
gown  stands  over  you,  and  gazes — as  he 
gazed  at  you  before; — his  look  is  very 
mournful ;  and  he  murmurs  you  mother's 
name  ;  and — sighs  ;  and — looks  again  ;  and 
passes  out. 

At  morning,  you  cannot  tell  if  it  was  real, 
or  a  dream.  Those  higher  resolves  too, 
which  grief,  and  the  night  made,  seem  very 
vague  and  shadowy.  Life  with  its  ambi 
tious,  and  cankerous  desires  wakes  again. 
You  do  not  feel  them  at  first ;  the  sub 
jugation  of  holy  thoughts,  and  of  reaches 
toward  the  Infinite,  leave  their  traces  on 
you,  and  perhaps  bewilder  you  into  a  half 
consciousness  of  strength.  But  at  the  first 
touch  of  the  grosser  elements  about  you ; — • 
on  your  very  first  entrance  upon  those 
duties  which  quicken  pride  or  shame,  and 
which  are  pointing  at  you  from  every  quar 
ter, — your  holy  calm,  your  high-born  pur 
pose, — your  spiritual  cleavings  pass  away, 
like  the  electricity  of  August  storms,  drawn 
down  by  the  thousand  glittering  turrets  of 
a  city. 

The  world  is  stronger  than  the  night ;  and 


FAMILY  CONFIDENCE.  181 

the  bindings  of  sense  are  ten-fold  stronger 
than  the  most  exquisite  delirium  of  soul. 
This  makes  you  feel,  or  will  one  day  make 
you  feel,  that  life, — strong  life  and  sound 
life, — that  life  which  lends  approaches  to 
the  Infinite,  and  takes  hold  on  Heaven,  is 
not  so  much  a  PROGRESS,  as  it  is  a  RESIST 
ANCE. 

There  is  one  special  confidence,  which  m 
all  your  talk  about  plans,  and  purposes, 
you  do  not  give  to  your  father ;  you  reserve 
that  for  the  ear  of  Nelly  alone.  Why  hap 
pens  it,  that  a  father  is  almost  the  last 
confidant  that  a  son  makes  in  any  matter 
deeply  affecting  the  feelings  ?  Is  it  the 
fear  that  a  father  may  regard  such  matter 
as  boyish  ?  Is  it  a  lingering  suspicion  of 
your  own  childishness  ;  or  of  that  extreme 
of  affection  which  reduces  you  to  childish 
ness  ? 

Why  is  it  always,  that  a  man  of  whatever 
age  or  condition,  forbears  to  exhibit  to 
those,  whose  respect  for  his  judgment,  and 
mental  abilities  he  seeks  only,  the  most 
earnest  qualities  of  the  heart,  and  those 
intenser  susceptibilities  of  love,  which  un 
derlie  his  nature,  and  which  give  a  color,  in 
spite  of  him,  to  the  habit  of  his  life  ?  Why 
is  he  so  morbidly  anxious  to  keep  out  of 
sight  any  extravagances  of  affection,  when 
he  blurts  officiously  to  the  world,  his  ex 
travagances  of  action,  and  of  thought  ? 
Can  any  lover  explain  me  this  ? 


twz  DREAM-LIFE. 

Again,  why  is  a  sister,  the  one  of  all 
others,  to' whom  you  first  whisper  the  dawn- 
ings  of  any  strong  emotion  ; — as  if  it  were 
a  weakness,  that  her  charity  alone  could 
cover  ? 

However  this  may  be,  you  have  a  long 
3tory  for  Nelly's  ear.  It  is  some  days  after 
your  return  :  you  are  strolling  down  a  quiet, 
wooded  lane — a  remembered  place, — when 
you  first  open  to  her  your  heart.  Your 
talk  is  of  Laura  Dalton.  You  describe  her 
to  Nelly,  with  the  extravagance  of  a  glowing 
hope.  You  picture  those  qualities  that 
have  attracted  you  most ;  you  dwell  upon 
her  beauty,  her  elegant  figure,  her  grace  of 
conversation,  her  accomplishments.  You 
make  a  study  that  feeds  your  passion,  as 
you  go  on.  You  rise  by  the  very  glow  of 
your  speech  into  a  frenzy  of  feeling,  that 
she  has  never  excited  before.  You  are 
quite  sure  that  you  would  be  wretched,  and 
miserable,  without  her. 

"Do  you  mean  to  marry  her?"  says 
Nelly. 

It  is  a  question  that  gives  a  swift  bound 
to  the  blood  of  youth.  It  involves  the  idea 
of  possession;  and  of  the  dependence  of 
the  cherished  one  upon  your  own  arm,  and 
strength.  But  the  admiration  you  enter 
tain,  seems  almost  too  lofty  for  this; 
Nelly's  question  makes  you  diffident  of 


FAMILY  CONFIDENCE.  183 

reply  ;  and  you  lose  yourself  in  a  new  story 
of  those  excellencies  of  speech,  and  of  fig 
ure,  which  have  so  charmed  you. 
•    Nelly's  eye,  on  a  sudden,  becomes  full  of 


What  is  it,  Nelly? 


"  Our  mother  ;  Clarence." 

The  word,  and  the  thought  dampen  your 
ardor  ;  the  sweet  watchfulness,  and  gentle 
kindness  of  that  parent,  for  an  instant, 
make  a  sad  contrast  with  the  showy  qual 
ities  you  have  been  naming  ;  and  the  spirit 
of  that  mother  —  called  up  by  Nelly's  words 
—  seems  to  hang  over  you,  with  an  anxious 
love,  that  subdues  all  your  pride  of  passion. 

But  this  passes;  and  now,  —  half  believing 
that  Nelly's  thoughts  have  run  over  the 
same  ground  with  yours,  —  you  turn  special 
pleader  for  your  fancy.  You  argue  for  the 
beauty,  which  you  just  now  affirmed; 
you  do  your  utmost  to  win  over  Nelly  to 
some  burst  of  admiration.  Yet  there  she 
sits  beside  you,  thoughtfully,  and  half  sadly, 
playing  with  the  frail  autumn  flowers  that 
grow  at  her  side.  What  can  she  be  think 
ing  ?  You  ask  it  by  a  look. 

She  smiles,  —  takes  your  hand,  for  she 
will  not  let  you  grow  angry,  — 

"  I  was  thinking,  Clarence,  whether  this 
Laura  Dalton,  would  after  all,  make  a  good 
wife,  —  such  an  one  as  you  would  love 
always?" 


VII. 

A  GOOD  WIFE. 

THE  thought  of  Nelly  suggests  new 
dreams,  that  are  little  apt  to  find  place 
in  the  rhapsodies  of  a  youthful  lover. 
The  very  epithet  of  a  good  wife,  mates 
tamely  with  the  romantic  fancies  of  a  first 
passion.  It  is  measuring  the  ideal  by  too 
practical  a  standard.  It  sweeps  away  all 
the  delightful  vagueness  of  a  fairy  dream 
of  love,  and  reduces  one  to  a  dull,  and  eco 
nomic  estimate  of  actual  qualities.  Passion 
lives  above  all  analysis  and  estimate,  and 
arrives  at  its  conclusions  by  intuition. 

Did  Petrarch  ever  think  if  Laura  would 
make  a  good  wife  ;  did  Oswald  ever  think 
it  of  Corinne  ?  Nay,  did  even  the  more 
practical  Waverley,  ever  think  it  of  the  im 
passioned  Flora?  Would  it  not  weaken 
faith  in  their  romantic  passages,  if  you  be 
lieved  it  ?  What  have  such  vulgar,  practical 
issues  to  do  with  that  passion  which  sub 
limates  the  faculties,  and  makes  the  loving 
(184) 


A  GOOD  WIFE.  185 

dreamer  to  live  in  an  ideal  sphere,  where 
nothing  but  goodness  and  brightness  can 
come  ? 

Nelly  is  to  be  pitied  for  entertaining  such 
a  thought ;  and  yet  Nelly  is  very  good,  and 
kind.  Her  affections  are,  without  doubt, 
all  centred  in  the  remnant  of  the  shattered 
home :  she  has  never  known  any  further, 
and  deeper  love, — never  once  fancied  it 
even 

Ah,  Clarence,  you  are  very  young  ! 

And  yet  there  are  some  things  that  puz 
zle  you  in  Nelly.  You  have  found,  acci 
dentally,  in  one  of  her  treasured  books, — a 
book  *hat  lies  almost  always  on  her  dress 
ing  table, — a  little  withered  flower,  with  its 
stem  in  a  slip  of  paper ;  and  on  the  paper 
the  initials  of — your  old  friend  Frank.  You 
recall,  in  connection  with  this,  her  indispo 
sition  to  talk  of  him  on  the  first  evening 
of  your  return.  It  seems, — you  scarce 
know  why — that  these  are  the  tokens  of 
something  very  like  a  leaning  of  the  heart. 
It  does  occur  to  you,  that  she  too,  may 
have  her  little  casket  of  loves ;  and  you 
try  one  day,  very  adroitly,  to  take  a  look 
into  this  casket. 

You  will  learn,  later  in  life,  that  the 

heart  of  a  modest,  gentle  girl,  is  a  very  hard 
matter,  for  even  a  brother  to  probe  :  it  is  at 
once  the  most  tender,  and  the  most  unap- 


i86  DREAM-LIFE. 

proachable  of  all  fastnesses.  It  admits 
feeling,  by  armies,  with  great  trains  of  ar 
tillery, — but  not  a  single  scout.  It  is  as 
calm  and  pure  as  polar  snows ;  but  deep 
underneath,  where  no  footsteps  have  gone, 
and  where  no  eye  can  reach,  but  one,  lies 
the  warm,  and  the  throbbing  earth. 

Make  what  you  will  of  the  slight,  quiver 
ing  blushes,  and  of  the  half-broken  expres 
sions, — more  you  cannot  get.  The  love 
that  a  delicate-minded  girl  will  tell,  is  a 
short-sighted,  and  outside  love;  but  the 
love  that  she  cherishes  without  voice  or 
token,  is  a  love  that  will  mould  her  secret 
sympathies,  and  her  deepest,  fondest  yearn 
ings,  either  to  a  quiet  world  of  joy,  or  to  a 
world  of  placid  sufferance.  The  true  voice 
of  her  love  she  will  keep  back  long  and 
late,  fearful  ever  of  her  most  prized  jewel, 
— fearful  to  strange  sensitiveness  :  she  will 
show  kindness,  but  the  opening  of  the  real 
flood-gates  of  the  heart,  and  the  utterance 
of  those  impassioned  yearnings,  which  be 
long  to  its  nature,  come  far  later.  And 
fearful,  thrice  fearful  is  the  shock,  if  these 
flow  out  unmet ! 

That  deep,  thrilling  voice  bearing  all  the 
perfume  of  the  womanly  soul  in  its  flow, 
rarely  finds  utterance ;  and  if  uttered  vainly, 
— if  called  out  by  tempting  devices,  and  by 
a  trust  that  is  abused, — desolate  indeed  is 


A  GOOD  WIFE.  187 

the  maiden  heart, — widowed  of  its  chastest 
thought.  The  soul  shrinks  affrighted  within 
itself.  Like  a  tired  bird,  lost  at  sea, — ^flut 
tering  around  what  seems  friendly  boughs, 
:t  stoops  at  length,  and  finding  only  cold, 
slippery  spars,  with  no  bloom  and  no  foliage 
—its  last  hope  gone — it  sinks  to  a  wild, 
ocean  grave ! 

Nelly — and  the  thought  brings  a  tear  of 
sympathy  to  your  eye — must  have  such  a 
heart :  it  speaks  in  every  shadow  of  her 
action.  And  this  very  delicacy  seems  to 
lend  her  a  charm,  that  would  make  her  a 
wife,  to  be  loved  and  honored. 

Aye,  there  is  something  in  that  maidenly 
modesty,  retiring  from  you,  as  you  advance, 
— retreating  timidly  from  all  boid  ap 
proaches,  fearful  and  yet  joyous,  which 
wins  upon  the  iron  hardness  of  a  man's 
nature,  like  a  rising  flame.  To  force  of 
action  and  resolve,  he  opposes  fo*ce :  to 
strong  will,  he  mates  his  own :  pride  lights 
pride;  but  to  the  gentleness  of  the  true 
womanly  character,  he  yields  with  a  gush  of 
tenderness  that  nothing  else  can  call  out. 
He  will  never  be  subjugated  on  his  own 
ground  of  action  and  energy ;  but  let  him 
be  lured  to  that  border  country,  over  which 
the  delicacy,  and  fondness  of  a  womanly 
nature  presides,  and  his  energy  yields,  his 
haughty  determination  faints, — he  is  proud 
of  submission. 


i88  DREAM-LIFE. 

And  with  this  thought  of  modesty,  and 
gentleness  to  illuminate  your  dream  of  an 
ideal  wife,  you  chase  the  pleasant  phantom 
to  that  shadowy  home, — lying  far  off  in 
the  future, — of  which  she  is  the  glory,  and 
the  crown.  I  know  it  is  the  fashion  now- 
a-days  with  many,  to  look  for  a  woman's 
excellencies,  and  influence, — away  from  her 
home ;  but  I  know  too,  that  a  vast  many 
eager,  and  hopeful  hearts,  still  cherish  the 
belief  that  her  virtues  will  range  highest, 
and  live  longest  within  those  sacred  walls. 

Where  indeed,  can  the  modest  and 
earnest  virtue  of  a  woman,  tell  a  stronger 
story  of  its  worth,  than  upon  the  dawning 
habit  of  a  child  ?  Where  can  her  grace  of 
character  \tfin  a  higher,  and  a  riper  effect, 
than  upon  the  action  of  her  household  ? 
What  mean  those  noisy  declaimers  who 
talk  of  the  feeble  influence,  and  of  the 
crushed  faculties  of  a  woman  ? 

What  school  of  learning,  or  of  moral 
endeavor,  depends  more  on  its  teacher, 
than  the  home  upon  the  mother  ?  What 
influence  of  all  the  world's  professors,  and 
teachers,  tells  so  strongly  on  the  habit  of  a 
man's  mind,  as  those  gentle  droppings  from 
a  mother's  lips,  which,  day  by  day,  and 
hour  by  hour,  grow  into  the  enlarging 
stature  of  his  soul,  and  live  with  it  forever ! 
They  can  hardly  be  mothers,  who  aim  at  a 


A  GOOD  WIFE.  189 

broader,  and  noisier  field :  they  have  for 
gotten  to  be  daughters  :  they  must  needs 
have  lost  the  hope  of  being  wives. 

Be  this  how  it  may,  the  heart  of  a  man, 
with  whom  affection  is  not  a  name,  and  love 
a  mere  passion  of  the  hour,  yearns  toward 
the  quiet  of  a  home,  as  toward  the  goal  of 
his  earthly  joy,  and  hope.  And  as  you 
fasten  there,  your  thought,  an  indulgent, 
yet  dreamy  fancy  paints  the  loved  image 
that  is  to  adorn  it,  and  to  make  it  sacred. 

She  is  there  to  bid  you  —  God  speed  ! 

— and  an  adieu,  that  hangs  like  music  on 
your  ear,  as  you  go  out  to  the  every  day 
labor  of  life.  At  evening,  she  is  there  to 
greet  you,  as  you  come  back  wearied  with 
a  day's  toil  ;  and  her  look  so  full  of  glad 
ness,  cheats  you  of  your  fatigue;  and  she 
steals  her  arm  around  you,  with  a  soul  of 
welcome,  that  beams  like  sunshine  on  her 
brow  and  that  fills  your  eye  with  tears  of 
a  twin  gratitude — to  her,  and  Heaven. 

She  is  not  unmindful  of  those  old-fash 
ioned  virtues  of  cleanliness,  and  of  order, 
which  give  an  air  of  quiet,  and  which  secure 
content.  Your  wants  are  all  anticipated ; 
the  fire  is  burning  brightly ;  the  clean 
hearth  flashes  under  the  joyous  blaze  ;  the 
old  elbow  chair  is  in  its  place.  Your  very 
unworthiness  of  all  this  haunts  you  like  an 
accusing  spirit,  and  yet  penetrates  your 


igo  DREAM-LIFE. 

heart  with  a  new  devotion,  toward  the  loved 
one  who  is  thus  watchful  of  your  comfort. 

Sh£  is  gentle ; — keeping  your  love,  as  she 
has  won  it,  by  a  thousand  nameless  and 
modest  virtues,  which  radiate  from  her 
whole  life  and  action.  She  steals  upon  youi 
affections  like  a  summer  wind  breathing  soft 
ly  over  sleeping  valleys.  She  gains  a  mas 
tery  over  your  sterner  nature,  by  very 
contrast ;  and  wins  you  unwittingly  to  her 
lightest  wish.  And  yet  her  wishes  are 
guided  by  that  delicate  tact,  which  avoids 
conflict  with  your  manly  pride;  she  sub 
dues,  by  seeming  to  yield.  By  a  single 
soft  word  of  appeal,  she  robs  your  vex 
ation  of  its  anger;  and  with  a  slight  touch 
of  that  fair  hand,  and  one  pleading  look  of 
that  earnest  eye,  she  disarms  your  stern 
est  pride. 

She  is  kind  ; — shedding  her  kindness,  as 
Heaven  sheds  dew.  Who  indeed  could 
doubt  it  ? — least  of  all,  you,  who  are  living 
on  her  kindness,  day  by  day  as  flowers  live 
on  light  ?  There  is  none  of  that  officious 
parade,  which  blunts  the  point  of  benevo 
lence  :  but  it  tempers  every  action  with  a 
blessing.  If  trouble  has  come  upon  you,  she 
knows  that  her  voice  beguiling  you  into 
cheerfulness,  will  lay  your  fears;  and  as 
she  draws  her  chair  beside  you,  she  knows 
that  the  tender  and  confiding  way,  with 


A  GOOD  WIFE:.  191 

which  she  takes  your  hand,  and  looks  up 
into  your  earnest  face,  will  drive  away  from 
you/annoyance  all  its  weight.  As  she  lin 
gers,  leading  off  your  thought  with  pleasant 
words,  she  knows  well  that  she  is  redeeming 
you  from  care,  and  soothing  you  to  that 
sweet  calm,  which  such  home,  and  such 
wife  can  alone  bestow.  And  in  sickness, — • 
sickness  that  you  almost  covet  for  the 
sympathy  it  brings, — that  hand  of  hers 
resting  on  your  fevered  forehead,  or  those 
fingers  playing  with  the  scattered  locks, 
are  more  full  of  kindness  than  the  loudest 
vaunt  of  friends ;  and  when  your  failing 
strength  will  permit  no  more,  you  grasp 
that  cherished  hand, — with  a  fullness  of 
joy,  of  thankfulness,  and  of  love,  which  your 
tears  only  can  tell. 

She  is  good  ; — her  hopes  live,  where  the 
angels  live.  Her  kindness  and  gentleness 
are  sweetly  tempered  with  that  meekness 
and  forbearance  which  are  born  of  Faith. 
Trust  comes  into  her  heart,  as  rivers  come 
to  the  sea.  And  in  the  dark  hours  of 
doubt  and  foreboding,  you  rest  fondly  upon 
her  buoyant  Faith,  as  the  treasure  of  your 
common  life ;  and  in  your  holier  musings, 
you  look  to  that  frail  hand,  and  that  gentle 
spirit,  to  lead  you  away  from  the  vanities 
of  worldly  ambition,  to  the  fullness  of  that 
joy,  which  the  good  inherit. 

Is  Laura  Dalton,  such  an  one  ? 


VIII. 

A  BROKEN  HOPE. 

YOUTHFUL    passion  is  a  giant.      It 
overleaps  all  the  dreams,  and  all  the 
resolves  of  our  better  and  quieter 
nature ;  and    drives    madly  toward   some 
wild  issue,  that  lives  only  in  its  frenzy. 
How  little  account  does   passion  take  of 
goodness !     It  is  not  within  the  cycle  of 
its  revolution  :  it  is  below :  it  is  tamer  :  it 
is  older  :  it  wears  no  wings. 

And  your  proud  heart  flashing  back  to 
the  memory  of  that  sparkling  eye,  which 
lighted  your  hope — full-fed  upon  the  vani 
ties  of  cloister  learning,  drives  your  soberer 
visions  to  the  wind.  As  you  recal  those 
tones,  so  full  of  brilliancy  and  pride,  the 
quiet  virtues  fade,  like  the  soft  haze  upon 
a  spring  landscape,  driven  westward  by  a 
swift,  sea-born  storm.  The  pulse  bounds  : 
the  eyes  flash  :  the  heart  trembles  with  its 
sharp  springs.  Hope  dilates,  like  the  eye, 
— f ed  with  swift  blood,  leaping  to  the  brain. 
(102) 


^  BROKEN  HOPE.  193 

Again  the  image  of  Miss  Dalton,  so  fine, 
so  noble,  so  womanly,  fills,  and  bounds  the 
Future.  The  lingering  tears  of  grief  drop 
away  from  your  eye,  as  the  lingering  loves 
of  boyhood  drop  from  your  scalding  passion 
or  drift  into  clouds  of  vapor. 

You  listen  to  the  calm,  thoughtful  advice 
of  the  father,  with  a  deep  consciousness  of 
something  stronger  than  his  counsels,  seeth 
ing  in  your  bosom.  The  words  of  cau 
tion,  of  instruction,  of  guidance,  fall  upon 
your  heated  imagination,  like  the  night- 
dews  upon  the  crater  of  an  Etna.  They 
are  beneficent,  and  healthful  for  the  strag 
gling  herbage  upon  the  surface  of  the 
mountain  ;  but  they  do  not  reach,  or  temper 
the  inner  fires,  that  are  rolling  their  billows 
of  flame,  beneath. 

You  drop  hints  from  time  to  time  to 
those  with  whom  you  are  most  familiar,  of 
some  prospective  change  of  condition. 
There  is  a  new  and  cheerful  interest  m  the 
building  plans  of  your  neighbors  : — a  new, 
and  cheerful  study  of  the  principles  of 
domestic  architecture ; — in  which,  very 
elegant  boudoirs,  adorned  with  harps,  hold 
prominent  place  ;  and  libraries  with  gilt- 
bound  books,  very  rich  in  lyrical,  and 
dramatic  poetry; — fine  views  from  bay 
windows  ; — graceful  pots  of  flowers; — sleek 
looking  Italian  grey-hounds  ; — cheerful  sun- 
G 


194  DREAM-LIFE. 

light ; — musical  goldfinches  chattering  on 
the  wall ; — superb  pictures  of  Princesses  in 
peasant  dresses;— soft  Axminster  carpets; 
— easy-acting  bell-pulls ; — gigantic  cande- 
labras  ; — porcelain  vases  of  classic  shape  j 
— neat  waiters  in  white  aprons ; — luxurious 
lounges  ;  and,  to  crown  them  all  with  the 
very  height  of  your  pride, — the  elegant 
Laura,  the  mistress,  and  the  guardian  of 
your  soul — moving  amid  the  scene,  like  a 
new  Duchess  of  Valliere  ! 

You  catch  chance  sights  here  and  there, 
of  the  blue-eyed  Madge :  you  see  her,  in 
her  mother's  household,  the  earnest,  and 
devoted  daughter, — gliding  gracefully  about 
her  mother's  cottage,  the  very  type  of  gen 
tleness,  and  of  duty.  Yet  withal,  there  are 
sparks  of  spirit  in  her,  that  pique  your 
pride, — lofty  as  it .  is.  You  offer  flowers, 
which  she  accepts  with  a  kind  smile ; — not 
of  coquetry — but  of  simplest  thankfulness. 
She  is  not  the  girl  to  gratify  your  vanity 
with  any  half-show  of  tenderness.  And  if 
there  lived  ever  in  her  heart  an  old  girlish, 
liking  for  the  school-boy  Clarence,  it  is  all 
gone  before  the  romantic  lover  of  the 
elegant  Laura  ;  or  at  most,  it'  lies  in  some 
obscure  corner  of  her  soul,  never  to  be 
brought  to  light. 

You  enter  upon  the  new  pursuits,  which 
your  father  has  advised,  with  a  lofty  con- 


A  BROKEN  HOPE.  195 

sciousness, — not  only  of  the  strength  of 
your  mind,  but  of  your  heart.  You  relieve 
your  opening  professional  study,  with  long 
letters  to  Miss  Dalton,  full  of  Shaksperean 
compliments,  and  touched  off  with  very 
dainty  elaboration.  And  you  receive  pleas 
ant,  gossipping  notes  in  answer, — full  of 
quotations,  but  meaning  very  little. 

Youth  is  in  a  grand  flush,  like  the  hot 
days  of  ending  summer ;  and  pleasant 
dreams  thrall  your  spirit,  like  the  smoky 
atmosphere  that  bathes  the  landscape  of 
an  August  day.  Hope  rides  high  in  the 
Heavens,  as  when  the  summer  sun  mounts 
nearest  to  the  zenith.  Youth  feels  the 
fullness  of  maturity,  before  the  second 
season  of  life  is  ended :  yet  is  it  a  vain 
maturity,  and  all  the  glow  is  deceitful. 
Those  fruits  that  ripen  in  summer  do  not 
last.  They  are  sweet ;  they  are  glowing 
with  gold ;  but  they  melt  with  a  luscious 
softness  upon  the  lip.  They  do  not  give 
that  strength,  and  nutriment,  which  will 
bear  a  man  bravely  through  the  coming 
chills  of  winter. 

The  last  scene  of  summer  changes  now 
to  the  cobwebbed  ceiling  of  an  attorney's 
office.  Books  of  law,  scattered  ingloriously 
at  your  elbow,  speak  dully  to  the  flush  of 
your  vanities.  You  are  seated  at  your  side 


lg6  DREAir-LIFE. 

desk,  where  you  have  wrought  at  those 
heavy,  mechanic  labors  of  drafting,  which 
go  before  a  knowledge  of  your  craft. 

A  letter  is  by  you,  which  you  regard 
with  strange  feelings  :  it  is  yet  unopened. 
It  comes  from  Laura.  It  is  in  reply  to  one 
which  has  cost  you  very  much  of  exquisite 
elaboration.  You  have  made  your  avowal 
of  feeling,  as  much  like  a  poem,  as  your 
education  would  admit.  Indeed,  it  was  a 
pretty  letter, — promising,  not  so  much  the 
trustful  love  of  an  earnest,  and  devoted 
heart, — as  the  fervor  of  a  passion  which 
consumed  you,  and  glowed  like  a  furnace 
through  the  lines  of  your  letter.  It  was  a 
confession,  in  which  your  vanity  of  intel 
lect  had  taken  very  entertaining  part ;  and 
in  which,  your  judgment  was  too  cool  to 
appear  at  all. 

She  must  needs  break  out  into  raptures 
at  such  a  letter ;  and  her  own,  will  doubt 
less  be  tempered  with  even  greater  passion. 

It  is  well  to  shift  your  chair  somewhat, 
so  that  the  clerks  of  the  office  may  not  see 
your  emotion  as  you  read.  It  would  be 
silly  to  manifest  your  exuberance  in  a  dis 
mal,  dark  office  of  your  instructing  attorney. 
One  sighs  rather  for  woods,  and  brooks, 
and  sunshine,  in  whose  company,  the  hopes 
of  youth  stretch  into  fulfillment. 

We  will  look  only  at  a  closing  passage  : — 


si  BROKEN  HOPE.  197 

"  My  friend  Clarence  will  I  trust  be 
lieve  me,  when  I  say  that  his  letter  was  a 
surprise  to  me.  To  say  that  it  was  very 
grateful,  would  be  what  my  womanly  vanity 
could  not  fail  to  claim.  I  only  wish  that  I 
was  equal  to  the  flattering  portrait  which 
he  has  drawn.  I  even  half  fancy  that  he  is 
joking  me,  and  can  hardly  believe  that  my 
matronly  air  should  have  quite  won  his 
youthfu1  heart.  At  least  I  shall  try  not  to 
believe  it  ;  and  when  I  welcome  him  one 
day,  the  husband  of  some  fairy,  who  is 
worthy  of  his  love,  we  will  smile  together 
at  the  old  lady,  who  once  played  the  Circe 
to  his  senses.  Seriously,  my  friend  Clar 
ence,  I  know  your  impulse  of  heart  h?s  car 
ried  you  away  :  and  that  in  a  year's  time,  you 
will  smile  with  me,  at  your  old  penchant  for 
one  so  much  your  senior,  and  so  ill-suited  to 
your  years,  as  your  true  friend,  LAURA." 

—Magnificent  Miss  Dalton ! 
Read  it  again.  Stick  your  knife  in  the 
desk  : — tut ! — you  will  break  the  blade  ! 
Fold  up  the  letter  carefully,  and  toss  it 
upon  your  pile  of  papers.  Open  Chitty 
again  ; — pleasant  reading  is  Chitty  !  Lean 
upon  your  hand — your  two  hands  ; — so  that 
no  one  will  catch  sight  of  your  face. 
Chitty  is  very  interesting  ; — how  sparkling 
and  imaginative — what  a  depth  and  flow  of 
passion  in  Chitty  ! 


198  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  office  is  a  capital  place — so  quiet  and 
sunny.  Law  is  a  delightful  study — so  cap 
tivating,  and  such  stores  of  romance!  And 
then  those  trips  to  the  Hall  offer  such 
relief  and  variety; — especially  just  now. 
It  would  be  well  not  to  betray  your  eager 
ness  to  go.  You  can  brush  your  hat  a 
round  or  two,  and  take  a  peep  into  the 
broken  bit  of  looking-glass,  over  the  wash- 
stand. 

You  lengthen  your  walk,  as  you  some 
times  do,  by  a  stroll  upon  the  Battery — 
though  rarely,  upon  such  a  blustering 
November  day.  You  put  your  hands  in 
your  pockets,  and  look  out  upon  the  toss 
ing  sea. 

It  is  a  fine  sight — very  fine.  There  are 
few  finer  bays  in  the  world  than  New  York 
bay ;  either  to  look  at,  or — for  that  matter 
— to  sleep  in.  The  ships  ride  up  thickly, 
dashing  about  the  cold  spray  delightfully ; 
the  little  cutters  gleam  in  the  November 
sunshine,  like  white  flowers  shivering  in 
the  wind. 

The  sky  is  rich — all  mottled  with  cold, 
gray  streaks  of  cloud.  The  old  apple- 
women,  with  their  noses  frost-bitten,  look 
cheerful,  and  blue.  The  ragged  immigrants 
in  short-trowsers,  and  bell-crowned  hats, 
stalk  about  with  a  very  happy  expression, 
and  very  short  stemmed  pipes ;  their  yellow- 


A  BROKEN  HOPE.  199 

haired  babies  look  comfortably  red,  and 
glowing.  And  the  trees  with  their  scant, 
pinched  foliage,  have  a  charming,  summer- 
like  effect! 

Amid  it  all,  the  thoughts  of  the  boudoir, 
and  harpsichord,  and  gold-finches,  and  Ax- 
minster  carpets,  and  sunshine,  and  Laura, 
are  so  very — very  pleasant !  How  delighted 
you  would  be  to  see  her  married  to  the 
stout  man  in  the  red  cravat,  who  gave  her 
bouquets,  and  strolled  with  her  on  the  deck 
of  the  steamer  upon  the  St.  Lawrence ! 
What  a  jaunty,  self-satisfied  air  he  wore ; 
and  with  what  considerate  forbearance  he 
treated  you — calling  you  once  or  twice — 
Master  Clarence  !  It  never  occurred  to  you 
before,  how  much  you  must  be  indebted  to 
that  pleasant,  stout  man. 

You  try  sadly  to  be  cheerful ;  you  smile 
oddly ;  your  pride  comes  strongly  to  your 
help,  but  yet  helps  you  very  little.  It  is 
not  so  much  a  broken  heart,  that  you  have 
to  mourn  over,  as  a  broken  dream.  You 
seem  to  see  in  a  hundred  ways  that  had 
never  occurred  to  you  before,  the  marks  of 
her  superior  age.  Above  all,  it  is  manifest 
in  the  cool,  and  unimpassioned  tone  of  her 
letter.  Yet,  how  kindly,  withal !  It  would 
be  a  relief  to  be  angry. 

New  visions  come  to  you,  wakened  by 
the  broken  fancy  which  has  just  now  eluded 


200  DREAM-LIFE. 

your  grasp.  You  will  make  yourself,  if  not 
old, — at  least,  gifted  with  the  force  and 
dignity  of  age.  You  will  be  a  man  ;  and 
build  no  more  castles,  until  you  can  people 
them  with  men.  In  an  excess  of  pride,  you 
even  take  umbrage  at  the  sex ;  they  can 
have  little  appreciation  of  that  engrossing 
tenderness,  of  which  you  feel  yourself  to 
be  capable.  Love  shall  henceforth  be  dead, 
and  you  will  live  boldly  without  it. 

Just   so,  when  some  dark,   eastern 

cloud-bank  shrouds  for  a  morning,  the  sun 
of  later  August,  we  say  in  our  shivering 
pride — the  winter  is  come  early  !  But  God 
manages  the  seasons  better  than  we ;  and 
in  a  day,  or  an  hour  perhaps,  the  cloud  will 
pass,  and  the  heavens  glow  again  upon  our 
ungrateful  heads. 

Well,  it  is  even  so,  that  the  passionate 
dreams  of  youth  break  up,  and  wither. 
Vanity  becomes  tempered  with  wholesome 
pride  ;  and  passion  yields  to  the  riper  judg 
ment  of  manhood  ; — even  as  the  August 
heats  pass  on,  and  over,  into  the  genial  glow 
of  a  September  sun.  There  is  a  strong 
growth  in  the  struggles  against  mortified 
pride  ;  and  then  only,  does  the  youth  get  an 
ennobling  consciousness  of  that  manhood 
which  is  dawning  in  him,  when  he  has  fairly 
surmounted  those  puny  vexations,  which  a 
wounded  vanity  creates. 


A  BROKEN  HOPE.  201 

Now,  your  heart  is  driven  home ; — and 
that  cherished  place,  where,  so  little  while 
ago,  you  wore  your  vanities  with  an  air,  that 
mocked  even  your  grief,  and  that  subdued 
your  better  nature,  seems  to  stretch  toward 
you,  over  long  miles  of  distance, — its  wings 
of  love ;  and  to  welcome  back  to  the  sister's, 
and  the  father's  heart — not  the  self-suffi 
cient,  and  vaunting  youth, — but  the  brother 
and  son, — the  scnool-boy,  Clarence.  Like 
a  thirsty  child,  yon  stray  in  thought,  to  that 
fountain  of  cheer;  and  live  again, — your 
vanity  crushed,  your  wild  hope  broken, — in 
the  warm,  and  natural  affections  of  the 
boyish  home. 

Clouds  weave  the  SUMMER  into  the  season 
of  AUTUMN  :  and  YOUTH  rises  from  dashed 
hopes,  into  the  stature  of  a  MAN. 


AUTUMN 

OR, 

THE  DREAMS  OF  MANHOOD. 


DREAMS  OF  MANHOOD. 


AUTUMN. 

THERE  are  those  who  shudder  at  the 
approach  of  Autumn ;  and  who  feel 
alight  grief  stealing  over  their  spirits, 
like    an    October   haze,    as    the    evening 
shadows  slant  sooner,  and  longer,  over  the 
face  of  an  ending  August  day. 

But  is  not  Autumn  the  Manhood  of  the 
year  ?  Is  it  not  the  ripest  of  the  seasons  ? 
Do  not  proud  flowers  blossom ; — the  golden 
rod,  the  orchis,  the  dahlia,  and  the  bloody 
cardinal  of  the  swamp-lands  ? 

The  fruits  too  are  golden,  hanging  heavy 
from  the  tasked  trees.  The  fields  of  maize 
show  weeping  spindles,  and  broad  rustling 
leaves,  and  ears,  half  glowing  with  the 
crowded  corn;  the  September  wind  whistles 
over  their  thick-set  ranks,  with  whispers  of 
plenty.  The  staggering  stalks  of  the  buck 
wheat,  grow  red  with  ripeness  ;  and  tip 
their  tops  with  clustering,  tri-cornered  ker 
nels. 

(205) 


»*  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  cattle  loosed  from  the  summer's 
yoke,  grow  strong  upon  the  meadows,  new 
starting  from  the  scythe.  The  lambs  of 
April,  rounded  into  fullness  of  limb,  and 
gaining  day  by  day  their  woolly  cloak,  bite 
at  the  nodding  clover-heads ;  or,  with  their 
noses  to  the  ground,  they  stand  in  solemn, 
circular  conclave,  under  the  pasture  oaks, 
while  the  noon  sun  beats  with  the  linger 
ing  passion  of  July. 

The  Bob-o'-Lincolns  have  come  back 
from  their  Southern  rambles  among  the 
rice,  all  speckled  with  gray ;  and — singing 
no  longer  as  they  did  in  Spring, — they 
quietly  feed  upon  the  ripened  reeds,  that 
straggle  along  the  borders  of  the  walls 
The  larks,  with  their  black  and  yellow 
breast-plates,  and  lifted  heads,  stand  tall 
upon  the  close-mown  meadow ;  and  at  your 
first  motion  of  approach,  spring  up,  and 
soar  away,  and  light  again ;  and  with  their 
lifted  heads,  renew  the  watch.  The  quails, 
in  half-grown  coveys,  saunter  hidden, 
through  the  underbrush  that  skirts  the  wood ; 
and  only  when  you  are  close  upon  them, 
whir  away,  and  drop  scattered  under  the 
coverts  of  the  forest. 

The  robins,  long  ago  deserting  the  garden 
neighborhood,  feed  at  eventide,  in  flocks, 
upon  the  bloody  berries  of  the  sumac ;  and 
the  soft-eyed  pigeons  dispute  possession  of 


DREAMS  OF  MANHOOD.  207 

the  feast.  The  squirrels  chatter  at  sun-rise, 
and  gnaw  off  the  full-grown  burs  of  the 
chestnuts.  The  lazy  black-birds  skip  after 
the  loitering  cow,  watchful  of  the  crickets, 
that  her  slow  steps  start  to  danger.  The 
crows,  in  companies,  caw  aloft ;  and  hang 
high  over  the  carcase  of  some  slaughtered 
sheep,  lying  ragged  upon  the  hills. 

The  ash  trees  grow  crimson  in  color,  and 
lose  their  summer  life  in  great  gouts  of 
blood.  The  birches  touch  their  frail  spray 
with  yellow ;  the  chestnuts  drop  down  their 
leaves  in  brown,  twirling  showers.  The 
beeches  crimped  with  the  frost,  guard  their 
foliage,  until  each  leaf  whistles  white,  in 
the  November  gales.  The  bitter-sweet 
hangs  its  bare,  and  leaf -less  tendrils  from 
rock  to  tree,  and  sways  with  the  weight  of 
its  brazen  berries.  The  sturdy  oaks,  un 
yielding  to  the  winds,  and  to  the  frosts, 
struggle  long  against  the  approaches  of 
the  winter;  and  in  their  struggles,  wear 
faces  of  orange,  of  scarlet,  of  crimson,  and 
of  brown ;  and  finally,  yielding  to  swift 
winds, — as  youth's  pride  yields  to  manly 
duty, — strew  the  ground  with  the  scattered 
glories  of  their  summer  strength;  and 
warm,  and  feed  the  earth,  with  the  debris 
of  their  leafy  honors. 

The  maple,  in  the  low-lands,  turns  sud 
denly  its  silvery  greenness  into  orange 


808  DREAM-LIFE. 

scarlet ;  and  in  the  coming  chilliness  of  the 
Autumn  eventide,  seems  to  catch  the 
glories  of  the  sunset ;  and  to  wear  them — 
as  a  sign  of  God's  old  promise  in  Egypt, — 
like  a  pillar  of  ckmd,  by  day, — and  of  fire, 
by  night. 

And  when  all  these  are  done ; — and  in 
the  paved,  and  noisy  aisles  of  the  city,  the 
ailanthus,  with  all  its  greenness  gone, — 
lifts  up  its  skeleton  fingers  to  the  God  of 
Autumn  and  of  storms, — the  dog-wood  still 
guards  its  crown  ;  and  the  branches  which 
stretched  their  white  canvass  in  April,  now 
bear  up  a  spire  of  bloody  tongues,  that  lie 
against  the  leafless  woods,  like  a  tree  on 
fire. 

Autumn  brings  to  the  home,  the  cheer 
ful  glow  of  'first  fires.'  It  withdraws  the 
thoughts  from  the  wide  and  joyous  land 
scape  of  summer,  and  fixes  them  upon  those 
objects  which  bloom,  and  rejoice  within  the 
household.  The  old  hearth  that  has  rioted 
the  summer  through  with  boughs  and  blos 
soms,  gives  up  its  withered  tenantry.  The 
fire-dogs  gleam  kindly  upon  the  evening 
hours ;  and  the  blaze  wakens  those  sweet 
hopes,  and  prayers,  which  cluster  around 
the  fireside  of  home. 

The  wanton  and  the  riot  of  the  season 
gone,  are  softened  in  memory,  and  supply 
joys  to  the  season  to  come ; — just  as  youth's 


DREAMS  OF  MANHOOD.  200 

audacity  and  pride,  give  a  glow  to  the 
recollections  of  our  manhood. 

At  mid-day,  the  air  is  mild  and  soft ;  a 
warm,  blue  smoke  lies  in  the  mountain  gaps; 
the  tracery  of  distant  woods  upon  the  up 
land,  hangs  in  the  haze,  with  a  dreamy 
gorgeousness  of  coloring.  The  river  runs 
low  with  August  drought ;  and  frets  upon 
the  pebbly  bottom,  with  a  soft,  low  murmur, 
— as  of  joyousness  gone  by.  The  hemlocks 
of  the  river  bank,  rise  in  tapering  sheens, 
and  tell  tales  of  Spring. 

As  the  sun  sinks,  doubling  his  disc  in 
the  October  smoke,  the  low,  south  wind 
creeps  over  the  withered  tree-tops,  and  drips 
the  leaves  upon  the  land.  The  windows 
that  were  wide  open  at  noon,  are  closed ; 
and  a  bright  blaze — to  drive  off  the  Eastern 
dampness,  that  promises  a  storm, — flashes 
lightly,  and  kindly,  over  the  book-shelves 
and  busts,  upon  my  wall. 

As  the  sun  sinks  lower,  and  lower,  his 
red  beams  die  in  a  sea  of  great,  gray  clouds. 
Slowly,  and  quietly,  they  creep  up  over  the 
night-sky.  Venus  is  shrouded.  The  West 
ern  stars  blink  faintly, — then  fade  in  the 
mounting  vapors.  The  vane  points  East  of 
South.  The  constellations  in  the  Zenith, 
struggle  to  be  seen ; — but  presently  give 
over,  and  hide  their  shining. 

By  late  lamp-light,  the  sky  is  all  gray  and 


aiG  DREAM-LIFE. 

dark :  the  vane  has  turned  two  points  near- 
er  East.  The  clouds  spit  fine  rain-drops, 
that  you  only  feel,  with  your  face  turned  to 
the  heavens.  But  soon,  they  grow  thicker 
and  heavier;  and,  as  I  sit,  watching  the 

blaze,  and dreaming they  patter 

thick  and  fast  under  the  driving  wind,  upon 
the  window, — like  the  swift  tread  of  an 
army  of  MEN  ! 


I. 

PRIDE  OF  MANLINESS. 

AND  has  manhood  no  dreams?  Doe* 
the  soul  wither  at  that  Rubicon, 
which  lies  between  the  Gallic  coun 
try  of  youth,  and  the  Rome  of  manliness  ? 
Does  not  fancy  still  love  to  cheat  the  heart, 
and  weave  gorgeous  tissues  to  hang  upon 
that  horizon,  which  lies  along  the  years  that 
are  to  come  ?  Is  happiness  so  exhausted, 
that  no  new  forms  of  it  lie  in  the  mines  of 
imagination,  for  busy  hopes  to  drag  up  to 
day  ? 

Where  then  would  live  the  motives  to  an 
upward  looking  of  the  eye,  and  of  the  soul ; 
— where,  the  beckonings  that  bid  us  ever — 
onward  ? 

But  these  later  dreams,  are  not  the  dreams 
of  fond  boyhood,  whose  eye  sees  rarely 
below  the  surface  of  things ;  nor  yet  the 
delicious  hopes  of  sparkling-blooded  youth : 
they  are  dreams  of  sober  trustfulness,  of 
practical  results,  of  hard-wrought  world- 
success,  and — may  be — of  Love  and  of  Joy, 

(211) 


212  DREAM-LIFE. 

Ambitious  forays  do  not  rest,  where  they 
rested  once :  hitherto,  the  balance  of  youth 
has  given  you,  in  all  that  you  have  dreamed 
of  accomplishment,  —  a  strong  vantage 
against  age  :  hitherto,  in  all  your  estimates 
you  have  been  able  to  multiply  them  b) 
that  access  of  thought,  and  of  strength 
which  manhood  would  bring  to  you.  Nuvvs 
this  is  forever  ended. 

There  is  a  great  meaning  in  that  word- 
manhood.  It  covers  all  human  growth.  It 
supposes  no  extensions,  or  increase ;  it  is\ 
integral,  fixed,  perfect — the  whole.  There 
is  no  getting  beyond  manhood  ;  it  is  much 
to  live  up  to  it;  but  once  reached,  you  are 
all  that  a  man  was  made  to  be,  in  this  world. 

It  is  a  strong  thought — that  a  man  is 
perfected,  so  far  as  strength  goes  ; — that  he 
will  never  be  abler  to  do  his  work,  than 
under  the  very  sun  which  is  now  shining 
on  him.  There  is  a  seriousness,  that  few 
call  to  mind,  in  the  reflection,  that  what 
ever  you  do  in  this  age  of  manhood,  is  an 
unalterable  type  of  your  whole  bigness. 
You  may  qualify  particulars  of  your  charac 
ter,  by  refinements,  by  special  studies,  and 
practice  ;  but, — once  a  man, — and  there  is 
no  more  manliness  to  be  lived  for. 

This  thought  kindles  your  soul  to  new, 
and  swifter  dreams  of  ambition  than  be 
longed  to  youth.  They  were  toys  ;  these 


PRIDE  OF  MANLINESS.  213 

are  weapons.  They  were  fancies ;  these 
are  motives.  The  soul  begins  to  struggle 
with  the  dust,  the  sloth,  the  circumstance, 
that  beleaguer  humanity,  and  to  stagger 
into  the  van  of  action. 

Perception,  whose  limits  lay  along  a  nar 
row  horizon,  now  tops  that  horizon,  and 
spreads,  and  reaches  toward  the  heaven  of 
the  Infinite.  The  mind  feels  its  birth,  and 
struggles  toward  the  great  birth-master. 
The  heart  glows  :  its  humanities  even,  yield 
and  crimple  under  the  fierce  heat  of  mental 
pride.  Vows  leap  upward,  and  pile  ram 
part  upon  rampart,  to  scale  all  the  degrees 
of  human  power. 

Are  there  not  times  in  every  man's  life 
when  there  flashes  on  him  a  feeling — nay, 
more,  an  absolute  conviction, — that  this  soul 
is  but  a  spark  belonging  to  some  upper  fire ; 
and  that  by  as  much  a!s  we  draw  near  by 
effort,  by  resolve,  by  intensity  of  endeavor, 
to  that  upper  fire, — by  so  much,  we  draw 
nearer  to  our  home,  and  mate  ourselves 
with  angels  ?  Is  there  not  a  ringing  desire 
in  many  minds  to  seize  hold  of  what  floats 
above  us  in  the  universe  of  thought,  and 
drag  down  what  shreds  we  can,  to  scatter 
to  the  world  ?  Is  it  not  belonging  to  great 
ness,  to  catch  lightning,  from  the  plains 
where  lightning  lives,  and  curb  it,  for  the 
handling  of  men  ? 


ti4  DREAM-^IFE. 

Resolve  is  what  makes  a  man  manliest; 
— not  puny  resolve,  not  crude  determina 
tion,  not  errant  purpose, — but  that  strong, 
and  indefatigable  will,  which  treads  down 
difficulties  and  danger,  as  a  boy  treads  down 
the  heaving  frost-lands  of  winter ; — which 
kindles  his  eye  and  brain,  with  a  proud 
pulse-beat  toward  the  unattainable.  Will 
makes  men  giants.  It  made  Napoleon  an 
Emperor  of  kings, — Bacon  a  fathomer  of 
nature, — Byron  a  tutor  of  passion,  and  the 
martyrs,  masters  of  Death. 

In  this  age  of  manhood,  you  look  back 
upon  the  dreams  of  the  years  that  are  past ; 
they  glide  to  the  vision  in  pompous  pro 
cession  ;  they  seem  bloated  with  infancy. 
They  are  without  sinew  or  bone.  They 
do  not  bear  the  hard  touches  of  the  man's 
hand. 

It  is  not  long,  to  be  sure,  since  the  sum 
mer  of  life  ended  with  that  broken  hope  ; 
but  the  few  years  that  lie  between  have 
given  long  steps  upward.  The  little  grief 
that  threw  its  shadow,  and  the  broken  vis 
ion  that  deluded  you,  have  made  the  pass 
ing  years  long,  in  such  feeling  as  ripens 
manhood.  Nothing  lays  the  brown  of  au 
tumn  upon  the  green  of  summer,  so  quick 
as  storms. 

There  have  been  changes  too  in  the 
home  scenes ;  these  graft  age  upon  a  man. 


PRIDE  OF  MANLINESS.  215 

Nelly — your  sweet  Nelly  of  childhood, 
your  affectionate  sister  of  youth  has  grown 
out  of  the  old  brotherly  companionship 
into  the  new  dignity  of  a  household. 

The  fire  flames  and  flashes  upon  the 
accustomed  hearth.  The  father's  chair  is 
there  in  the  wonted  corner ;  he  himself — • 
we  must  call  him  the  old  man  now,  though 
his  head  shows  few  white  honors — wears  a 
calmness  and  a  trust  that  light  the  failing 
eye.  Nelly  is  not  away  ;  Nelly  is  a  wife ; 
and  the  husband  yonder,  as  you  may  have 
dreamed, — your  old  friend  Frank. 

Her  eye  is  joyous ;  her  kindness  to  you 
is  unabated ;  her  care  for  you  is  quicker 
and  wiser.  But  yet  the  old  unity  of  the  house 
hold  seems  broken ;  nor  can  all  her  win 
ning  attentions  bring  back  the  feeling  which 
lived  in  Spring,  under  the  garret  roof. 

The  isolation,  the  unity,  the  integrity  of 
manhood,  make  a  strong  prop  for  the  mind; 
but  a  weak  one  for  the  heart.  Dignity  can 
but  poorly  fill  up  that  chasm  of  the  soul, 
which  the  home  affections  once  occupied. 
Life's  duties,  and  honors  press  hard  upon 
the  bosom,  that  once  throbbed  at  a  mother's 
tones,  and  that  bounded  in  a  mother's 
smiles. 

In  such  home,  the  strength  you  boast  of, 
seems  a  weakness  ;  manhood  leans  into 
childish  memories,  and  melts — as  Autumn 


2i6  DREAM-LIFE. 

frosts  yield  to  a  soft,  south  wind,  coming 
from  a  Tropic  spring.  You  feel  in  a  desert 
where  you  once  felt  at  home — in  a  bounded 
landscape, — that  was  once — the  world. 

The  tall  sycamores  have  dwindled  to  pal 
try  trees  :  the  hills  that  were  so  large,  and 
lay  at  such  grand  distance  to  the  eye  of 
childhood,  are  now  near  by,  and  have  fallen 
away  to  mere  rolling  waves  of  upland.  The 
garden  fence  that  was  so  gigantic,  is  now 
only  a  simple  paling  :  its  gate  that  was  such 
a  cumbrous  affair — reminding  you  of  Gaza 
— -you  might  easily  lift  from  its  hinges.  The 
lofty  dovecote,  which  seemed  to  rise  like  a 
monument  of  art,  before  your  boyish  vision, 
is  now  only  a  flimsy  box  upon  a  tall  spar  of 
hemlock. 

The  garret  even,  with  its  lofty  beams, 
its  dark  stains,  and  its  obscure  corners, 
where  the  white  hats,  and  coats  hung 
ghost-like,  is  but  a  low  loft,  darkened  by 
age, — hung  over  with  cobwebs,  dimly 
lighted  with  foul  windows, — its  romping 
Charlie, — its  glee, — its  swing, — its  joy,— 
its  mystery,  all  gone  forever. 

The  old  gallipots,  and  retorts  are  not  any 
where  to  be  seen  in  the  second  story  window 
of  the  brick  school.  Dr.  Bidlow  is  no  more .' 
The  trees  that  seemed  so  large,  the  gymnas 
tic  feats  that  were  so  extraordinary,  the  boy 
that  made  a  snapper  of  his  handkerchief,— 


PRIDE  OF  MANLINESS.  217 

have  all  lost  their  greatness,  and  their 
dread.  Even  the  springy  usher,  who 
dressed  his  hair  with  the  ferule,  has  become 
the  middle-aged  father  of  five  curly-headed 
boys,  and  has  entered  upon  what  once 
seemed  the  gigantic  commerce — of  '  sta 
tionery  and  account  books.' 

The  marvellous  labyrinth  of  closets,  at 
the  old  mansion  where  you  once  paid  a 
visit — in  a  coach — is  all  dissipated.  They 
have  turned  out  to  be  the  merest  cupboards 
in  the  wall.  Nat,  who  had  travelled,  and 
seen  London,  is  by  no  means  so  surprising 
a  fellow  to  your  manhood,  as  he  was  to  the 
boy.  He  has  grown  spare,  and  wears 
spectacles.  He  is  not  so  famous  as  he 
was.  You  would  hardly  think  of  consult 
ing  him  now  about  your  marriage ;  or  even 
about  the  price  of  goats  upon  London 
bridge. 

As  for  Jenny — your  first,  fond  flame  !— 
lively,  romantic,  black-eyed  Jenny,— the 
reader  of  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw, — who 
sighed  and  wore  blue  ribbons  on  her  bonnet, 
— who  wrote  love  notes, — who  talked  so 
tenderly  of  broken  hearts, — who  used  a 
glass  seal  with  a  cupid  and  a  dart, — dear 
Jenny, — she  is  now  the  plump,  and  thriving 
wife  of  the  apothecary  of  the  town  !  She 
sweeps  out  every  morning  at  seven,  the 
little  entry  of  the  apothecary's  house  :  she 


2i8  DREAM-LIFE. 

buys  a  'joint 'twice  a  week  from  the 
butcher,  and  is  particular  to  have  the 
'knuckle 'thrown  in,  for  soups:  she  wears 
a  sky  blue  calico  gown,  and  dresses  her 
hair  in  three  little  flat  quirls  on  either  side 
of  her  head — each  one  pierced  through  with 
a  two-pronged  hair-pin. 

She  does  not  read  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw, 
low. 


II. 

MAN  OF  THE  WORLD. 

FEW  persons  live  through  the  first  pe 
riods  of  manhood,  without  strong 
temptations  to  be  counted — '  men  of 
the  world.'  The  idea  looms  grandly  among 
those  vanities,  that  hedge  a  man's  approach 
to  maturity. 

Clarence  is  in  good  training  for  the  acx 
ceptance  of  this  idea.  The  broken  hope 
which  clouded  his  closing  youth,  shoots 
over  its  influence  upon  the  dawn  of  man 
hood.  Mortified  pride  had  taught — as  it 
always  teaches  —  not  caution  only,  but 
doubt,  distrust,  indifference.  A  new  pride 
grows  up  on  the  ruins  of  the  old,  weak,  and 
vain  pride  of  youth.  Then,  it  was  a  pride 
of  learning,  or  of  affection  ;  now,  it  is  a  pride 
of  indifference.  Then,  the  world  proved 
bleak,  and  cold,  as  contrasted  with  his 
shining  dreams ;  and  now,  he  accepts  the 
proof,  and  wins  from  it  what  he  can. 

The  man  of  the  world  puts  on  the  method, 
(219) 


220  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  measure  of  the  world :  he  studies  its 
humors.  He  gives  up  the  boyish  notion  of 
a  sincerity  among  men,  like  that  of  youth  : 
he  lives,  to  seem.  He  conquers  such  an 
noyances  as  the  world  may  thrust  upon  him, 
in  the  shape  of  grief,  or  losses,  like  a  prac 
tised  athlete  of  the  ring.  He  studies  moral 
sparring. 

With  somewhat  of  this  strange  vanity 
growing  on  you,  you  do  not  suffer  the  heart 
to  wake  into  life,  except  in  such  fanciful 
dreams  as  tempt  you  back  to  the  sunny 
slopes  of  childhood. 

In  this  mood,  you  fall  in  with  Dalton, 
who  has  just  returned  from  a  year  passed  in 
the  French  Capital.  There  is  an  easy  suav 
ity,  and  graceful  indifference  in  his  manner 
that  chimes  admirably  with  your  humor. 
He  is  gracious,  without  needing  to  be  kind. 
He  is  a  friend,  without  any  challenge  or 
proffer  of  sincerity.  He  is  an  adept  in 
those  world  tactics,  which  match  him  with 
all  men,  but  which  link  him  to  none.  He 
has  made  it  his  art  to  be  desired,  and  ad 
mired,  but  rarely  to  be  trusted.  You  could 
not  have  a  better  teacher. 

Under  such  instruction,  you  become  dis 
gusted  for  the  time,  with  any  effort,  or  pulse 
of  affection,  which  does  not  have  immediate 
and  practical  bearing  upon  that  success  in 
life,  by  which  you  measure  your  hopes.  The 


MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  221 

dreams  of  love,  of  romantic  adventure,  of 
placid  joy,  have  all  gone  out,  with  the  fantas 
tic  images,  to  which  your  passionate  youth 
had  joined  them.  The  world  is  now  re 
garded  as  a  tournament,  where  the  gladia- 
torship  of  life  is  to  be  exhibited  L.I  your 
best  endeavor.  Its  honors  and  joy,  lie  in 
a  brilliant  pennant,  and  a  plaudit. 

Dalton  is  learned  in  those  arts  which 
make  of  action — not  a  duty,  but  a  con 
quest  ;  and  sense  of  duty  has  expired  in 
you,  with  those  romantic  hopes,  to  which 
you  bound  it, — not  as  much  through  sym 
pathy,  as  ignorance.  It  is  a  cold,  and  a 
bitterly  selfish  work  that  lies  before  you, — 
to  be  covered  over  with  such  borrowed 
show  of  smiles,  as  men  call  affability.  The 
heart  wears  a  stout,  brazen  screen ;  its  in 
clinations  grow  to  the  habit  of  your  ambi 
tious  projects. 

In  such  mood  come  swift  dreams  of 
wealth  ; — not  of  mere  accumulation,  but  of 
the  splendor,  and  parade,  which  in  our 
western  world  are,  alas,  its  chiefest  attrac 
tions.  You  grow  observant  of  markets, 
and  estimate  per  centages.  You  fondle 
some  speculation  in  your  thought,  until 
it  grows  into  a  gigantic  scheme  of  profit ; 
and  if  the  venture  prove  successful,  you 
follow  the  tide  tremulously,  until  some 
sudden  reverse  throws  you  back  upon  the 
resources  of  your  professional  employ. 


M2  DREAM-LIFE. 

But  again,  as  you  see  this  and  that  one 
wearing  the  blazonry  which  wealth  wins, 
and  which  the  man  of  the  world  is  sure  to 
covet, — your  weak  soul  glows  again  with 
the  impassioned  desire;  and  you  hunger, 
with  brute  appetite,  and  bestial  eye — for 
riches.  You  see  the  mania  around  you; 
and  it  is  relieved  of  odium,  by  the  com 
munity  of  error.  You  consult  some  gray 
old  veteran  in  the  war  of  gold,  scarred  with 
wounds,  and  crowned  with  honors ;  and 
watch  eagerly  for  the  words  and  the  ways, 
which  have  won  him  wealth. 

Your  fingers  tingle  with  mad  expectan 
cies  ;  your  eyes  roam — lost  in  estimates. 
Your  note-book  shows  long  lines  of  figures. 
Your  reading  of  the  news  centres  in  the 
stock  list.  Your  brow  grows  cramped  with 
the  fever  of  anxiety.  Through  whole 
church  hours,  your  dreams  range  over  the 
shadowy  transactions  of  the  week  or  the 
month  to  come. 

Even  with  old  religious  habit  clinging 
fast  to  your  soul,  you  dream  now,  only  of 
nice  conformity,  comfortable  faith,  high 
respectability ;  there  lies  very  little  in  you 
of  that  noble  consciousness  of  Duty  per 
formed, — of  living  up  to  the  Life  that 
is  in  you, — of  grasping  boldly,  and  stoutly, 
at  those  chains  of  Love  which  the  Infinite 
Power  has  lowered  to  our  reach.  You  do 


MAN  OF  THE  WORLD,  223 

not  dream  of  being,  but  of  seeming.  You 
spill  the  real  essence,  and  clutch  at  the  vial 
which  has  only  a  label  of  Truth.  Great 
and  holy  thoughts  of  the  Future, — shadowy, 
yet  bold  conceptions  of  the  Infinite,  float 
past  you  dimly,  and  your  hold  is  never 
strong  enough  to  grapple  them  to  you. 
They  fly,  like  eagles,  too  near  the  sun  ;  and 
there  lies  game  below,  for  your  vulture 
beak  to  feed  upon. 

[Great  thoughts  belong,  only  and  truly, 
to  him  whose  mind  can  hold  them.  No 
matter  who  first  puts  them  in  words  ;  if 
they  come  to  a  soul,  and  fill  it,  they  belong 
to  it ; — whether  they  floated  on  the  voice 
of  others,  or  on  the  wings  of  silence,  and 
the  night.] 

To  be  up  with  the  fashion  of  the  time, — 
to  be  ignorant  of  plain  things  and  people, 
and  to  be  knowing  in  brilliancies,  is  a  kind 
of  Pelhamism,  that  is  very  apt  to  overtake 
one  in  the  first  blush  of  manhood.  To 
hold  a  fair  place  in  the  after-dinner  table- 
talk,  to  meet  distinction  as  a  familiarity,  to 
frear  salon  honors  with  aplomb,  to  know 
affection  so  far  as  to  wield  it  into  grace  of 
language,  are  all  splendid  achievements 
with  a  man  of  the  world.  Instruction  is 
caught,  without  asking  it ;  and  no  ignorance 
so  shames,  as  ignorance  of  those  forms,  by 
which  natural  impulse  is  subdued  to  the 


824  DREAM-LIFE. 

tone  of  civilian  habit.  You  conceal  what 
tells  of  the  man ;  and  cover  it  with  what 
smacks  of  the  roue. 

Perhaps,  under  such  training,  and  vvith 
a  slight  memory  of  early  mortification  tc 
point  your  spirit,  you  affect  those  gallantries 
of  heart  and  action,  which  the  world  calls 
flirtation.  You  may  study  brilliancies  of 
speech,  to  wrap  their  net  around  those  sus 
ceptible  hearts,  whose  habit  is  too  na'ive  by 
nature,  to  wear  the  leaden  covering  of 
custom.  You  win  approaches  by  artful 
counterfeit  of  earnestness ;  and  dash  away 
any  naivete  of  confidence,  with  some  brave 
sophism  of  the  world.  A  doubt  or  a  dis 
trust,  piques  your  pride,  and  makes  atten 
tions  wear  a  humility  that  wins  anew.  An 
indifference  piques  you  more,  and  throws 
into  your  art  a  counter  indifference, — lit  up 
by  bold  flashes  of  feeling, — sparkling  with 
careless  brilliancies,  and  crowned  with  a 
triumph  of  neglect. 

It  is  curious  how  ingeniously  a  man's 
vanity  will  frame  apologies  for  such  action. 

It  is  pleasant  to  give  pleasure;  you 

like  to  see  a  joyous  sparkle  of  the  eye, 
whether  lit  up  by  your  presence,  or  by 
some  buoyant  fancy.  It  is  a  beguiling 
task  to  weave  words  into  some  soft,  melo 
dious  flow,  that  shall  keep  the  ear,  and 
kindle  the  eye ; — and  to  strew  it  over  with 


Dream  Life    4 


MAN  OF  THE  WORLD.  225 

half-hidden  praises,  so  deftly  couched  in 
double  terms,  that  their  aroma  shall  only 
come  to  the  heart  hours  afterward ;  and 
seem  to  be  the  merest  accidents  of  truth. 
It  is  a  happy  art  to  make  such  subdued 
show  of  emotion,  as  seems  to  struggle 
with  pride ;  and  to  flush  the  eye  with  a 
moisture,  of  which  you  seem  ashamed,  and 
yet  are  proud.  It  is  a  pretty  practice,  to 
throw  an  earnestness  into  look  and  gesture, 
that  shall  seem  full  of  pleading,  and  yet — 
ask  nothing  ! 

And  yet  it  is  hard  to  admire  greatly  the 
reputation  of  that  man,  who  builds  his 
triumphs  upon  womanly  weakness  :  that 
distinction  is  not  over  enduring,  whose 
chiefest  merit  springs  out  of  the  delusions 
of  a  too  trustful  heart.  The  man  who 
wins  it,  wins  only  a  poor  sort  of  womanly 
distinction.  Without  power  to  cope  with 
men,  he  triumphs  over  the  weakness  of  the 
other  sex,  only  by  hypocrisy.  He  wears 
none  of  the  armor  of  Romans ;  and  he  par 
leys  with  Punic  faith. 

Yet,  even  now, — there  is  a  lurking 

goodness  in  you,  that  traces  its  beginnings 
to  the  old  garret  home  ; — there  is  an  air  in 
the  harvest  heats,  that  whispers  of  the 
bloom  of  spring. 

And  over  your  brilliant  career  as  man  of 
the  world, — nowever  lit  up  by  a  morbid  van- 
H 


226  DREAM-LIFE. 

ity,  or  galvanized  by  a  lascivious  passion, 
there  will  come  at  times,  the  consciousness 
of  a  better  heart  struggling  beneath  your 
cankered  action, — like  the  low  Vesuvian  fire, 
reeking  vainly  under  rough  beds  of  tufa, 
and  scoriated  lava.  And  as  you  smile  in 
loge,  or  salon,  with  daring  smiles  ;  or  press 
with  villain  fondness,  the  hand  of  those  lady 
votaries  of  the  same  god  you  serve,  there 
will  gleam  upon  you,  over  the  waste  of 
rolling  years,  a  memory  that  quickens 
again  the  nobler,  and  bolder  instincts  of 
the  heart. 

Childish  recollections,  with  their  purity, 
and  earnestness, — a  sister's  love, — a  moth 
er's  solicitude,'  will  flood  your  soul  once 
more  with  a  gushing  sensibility  that  yearns 
for  enjoyment.  And  the  consciousness  of 
some  lingering  nobility  of  affection,  that 
can  only  grow  great,  in  mating  itself  with 
nobility  of  heart,  will  sweep  off  your  puny 
triumphs,  your  Platonic  friendships,  your 
dashing  coquetries, — like  the  foul  smoke 
of  a  city,  before  a  fresh  breeze  of  the  coun 
try  autumn. 


Ill 

MANLY  HOPE. 

YOU  are  at  home  again  ; — not  your  own 
home,  that  is  gone ;  but  at  the  home  of 
Nelly,  and  of  Frank.  The  city  heats 
of  summer  drive  you  to  the  country.  You 
ramble,  with  a  little  kindling  of  old  desires 
and  memories,  over  the  hill  sides  that  once 
bounded  your  boyish  vision.  Here,  you 
netted  the  wild  rabbits,  as  they  came  out  at 
dusk,  to  feed ;  there,  upon  that  tall  chest 
nut,  you  cruelly  maimed  your  first  captive 
squirrel.  The  old  maples  are  even  now 
scarred  with  the  rude  cuts  you  gave  themc 
in  sappy  March. 

You  sit  down  upon  some  height,  over 
looking  the  valley  where  you  were  born ; 
you  trace  the  faint,  silvery  line  of  river ;  you 
detect  by  the  leaning  elm,  your  old  bathing 
place  upon  the  Saturdays  of  Summer. 
Your  eye  dwells  upon  some  patches  of  pas 
ture  wood,  which  were  famous  for  their  nuts. 
Your  rambling,  and  saddened  vision  roams 
(227) 


228  DREAM-LIFE. 

over  the  houses ;  it  traces  the  familiar 
chimney-stacks;  it  searches  out  the  low- 
lying  cottages ;  it  dwells  upon  the  gray 
roof,  sleeping  yonder  under  the  sycamores. 

Tears  swell  in  your  eye,  as  you  gaze ; 
you  cannot  tell  whence,  or  why  they 
come.  Yet  they  are  tears  eloquent  of  feel 
ing.  They  speak  of  brother  children — of 
boyish  glee, — of  the  flush  of  young  health, 
— of  a  mother's  devotion, — of  the  home  af 
fections, — of  the  vanities  of  life, — of  the 
wasting  years,  of  the  Death  that  must 
shroud  what  friends  remain,  as  it  has 
shrouded  what  friends  have  gone, — and  of 
that  GREAT  HOPE,  beaming  on  your  seared 
manhood  dimly,  from  the  upper  world. 

Your  wealth  suffices  for  all  the  luxuries 
of  life  :  there  is  no  fear  of  coming  want ; 
health  beats  strong  in  your  veins ;  you  have 
learned  to  hold  a  place  in  the  world,  with  a 
man's  strength,  and  a  man's  confidence. 
And  yet  in  the  view  of  those  sweet  scenes 
which  belonged  to  early  days,  when  neither 
strength,  confidence,  nor  wealth  were  yours, 
days  never  to  come  again, — a  shade  cf  mel 
ancholy  broods  upon  your  spirit,  and  covers 
with  its  veil  all  that  fierce  pride  which  your 
worldly  wisdom  has  wrought. 

You  visit  again,  with  Frank,  the  country 
homestead  of  his  grandfather  ;  he  is  dead; 
but  the  old  lady  still  lives ;  and  blind  Fanny, 


MA  NL  Y  HOPE.  229 

now  drawing  toward  womanhood,  wears  yet 
through  her  darkened  life,  the  same  air  of 
placid  content,  and  of  sweet  trustfulness  in 
Heaven.  The  boys  whom  you  astounded 
with  your  stories  of  books  are  gone,  building 
up  now  with  steady  industry  the  queen 
cities  of  our  new  Western  land.  The  oU 
clergyman  is  gone  from  the  desk,  and  from 
under  his  sounding  board ;  he  sleeps  be 
neath  a  brown  stone  slab  in  the  church 
yard.  The  stout  deacon  is  dead ;  his  wig 
and  his  wickedness  rest  together.  The  tall 
chorister  sings  yet :  but  they  have  now  a 
bass-viol — handled  by  a  new  schoolmaster, 
in  place  of  his  tuning  fork ;  and  the  years 
have  sown  feeble  quavers  in  his  voice. 

Once  more  you  meet  at  the  home  of 
Nelly, — the  blue  eyed  Madge.  The  six 
pence  is  all  forgotten  ;  you  cannot  tell  where 
your  half  of  it  is  gone.  Yet  she  is  beautiful 
— just  budding  into  the  full  ripeness  of 
womanhood.  Her  eyes  have  a  quiet,  still 

J'oy,  and  hope  beaming  in  them,  like  angel's 
ooks.  Ker  motions  have  a  native  grace, 
and  freedom,  that  no  culture  can  bestow. 
Her  words  have  a  gentle  earnestness  and 
honesty,  that  could  never  nurture  guile. 

You  had  thought,  after  your  gay  experi 
ences  of  the  world,  to  meet  her  with  a  kind 
condescension,  as  an  old  friend  of  Nelly's. 
But  there  is  that  in  her  eye,  which  forbids 


*30  DREAM-LIFE. 

all  thought  of  condescension.  There  is 
that  in  her  air,  which  tells  of  a  high  woman 
ly  dignity,  which  can  only  be  met  on  equal 
ground.  Your  pride  is  piqued.  She  has 
known — she  must  know  your  history ;  but 
it  does  not  tame  her.  Tnere  is  no  marked 
and  submissive  appreciation  of  your  gifts, 
as  a  man  of  the  world. 

She  meets  your  happiest  compliments 
with  a  very  easy  indifference ;  she  receives 
your  elegant  civilities  with  a  very  assured 
brow.  She  neither  courts  your  society,  nor 
avoids  it.  She  does  not  seek  to  provoke 
any  special  attention.  And  only  when  your 
old-self  glows  in  some  casual  kindness  to 
Nelly,  does  her  look  beam  with  a  flush  of 
sympathy. 

This  look  touches  you.  It  makes  you 
ponder  on  the  noble  heart  that  lives  in 
Madge.  It  makes  you  wish  it  were  yours. 
But  that  is  gone.  The  fervor  and  the  hon 
esty  of  a  glowing  youth,  is  swallowed  up  in 
the  flash  and  splendor  of  the  world.  A 
half-regret  chases  over  you  at  night-fall, 
when  solitude  pierces  you  with  the  swift 
dart  of  gone-by  memories.  But  at  morning, 
the  regret  dies,  in  the  glitter  of  ambitious 
purposes. 

The  summer  months  linger ;  and  still  you 
linger  with  them.  Madge  is  often  with 
Nelly ;  and  Madge  is  never  less  than  Madge. 
You  venture  to  point  your  attentions  with 


MANLY  HOPE.  tyt 

a  little  more  fervor;  but  she  meets  the 
fervor  with  no  glow.  She  knows  too  well 
the  habit  of  your  life. 

Strange  feelings  come  over  you ; — feel 
ings  like  half-forgotten  memories — musical 
— dreamy — doubtful.  You  have  seen  a  hun 
dred  faces  more  brilliant  than  that  of  Madge ; 
you  have  pressed  a  hundred  jewelled  hands 
that  have  returned  a  half-pressure  to  yours. 
You  do  not  exactly  admire ; — to  love,  you 
have  forgotten  ; — you  only — linger ! 

It  is  a  soft  autumn  evening,  and  the  har 
vest  moon  is  red  and  round  over  the  eastern 
skirt  of  woods.  You  are  attending  Madge 
to  that  little  cottage  home,  where  lives  that 
gentle  and  doting  mother,  who  in  the  midst 
9f  comparative  poverty,  cherishes  that  re 
fined  delicacy  which  never  comes  to  a  child, 
but  by  inheritance. 

Madge  has  been  passing  the  day  with 
Nelly.  Something — it  may  be  the  soft 
autumn  air  wafting  toward  you  the  fresh 
ness  of  young  days, — moves  you  to  speak, 
as  you  have  not  ventured  to  speak, — as  your 
vanity  has  not  allowed  you  to  speak  before. 

"You  remember,  Madge,  (you  have 
guarded  this  sole  token  of  boyish  intimacy) 
our  split  sixpence  ? " 

"Perfectly :"  it  is  a  short  word  to  speak, 
and  there  is  no  tremor  in  her  tone — not  the 
slightest. 


«3*  DREAM-LIFE, 

"  You  have  it  yet  ?" 

"  I  dare  say,  I  have  it  somewhere :"  no 
tremor  now  :  she  is  very  composed. 

"That  was  a  happy  time:"  very  great 
emphasis  on  the  word  happy. 

"  Very  happy  :" — no  emphasis  anywhere. 

"  I  sometimes  wish  I  might  live  it  over 
again." 

"  Yes  ?" — inquiringly. 

"  There  are  after  all  no  pleasures  in  the 
world  like  those." 

"  No  ?" — inquiringly  again. 

You  thought  you  had  learned  to  have 
language  at  command  :  you  never  thought, 
after  so  many  years  schooling  of  the 
world,  that  your  pliant  tongue  would  play 
you  truant.  Yet  now, — you  are  silent. 

The  moon  steals  silvery  into  the  light 
flakes  of  cloud,  and  the  air  is  soft  as  May. 
The  cottage  is  in  sight.  Again  you  risk 
utterance  : — 

"  You  must  live  very  happily  here." 

"  I  have  very  kind  friends  : " — the  very,  is 
emphasized. 

"  I  am  sure  Nelly  loves  you  very  much." 

"  Oh,  I  believe  it  !  " — with  great  earnest 
ness. 

You  are  at  the  cottage  door  : — 

"  Good  night,  Maggie," — very  feelingly, 

"Good  night,  Clarence," — very  kindly; 
and  she  draws  her  hand  coyly,  and  half 


MANLY  HOPE.  933 

tremulously,  from  your  somewhat  fevered 
grasp. 

You  stroll  away  dreamily, — watching  the 
moon, — running  over  your  fragmentary  life ; 
— half  moody, — half  pleased, — half  hopeful. 

You  come  back  stealthily,  and  with  a 
heart  throbbing  with  a  certain  wild  sense 
of  shame,  to  watch  the  light  gleaming  in  the 
cottage.  You  linger  in  the  shadows  of  the 
trees,  until  you  catch  a  glimpse  of  her 
figure,  gliding  past  the  window.  You  bear 
the  image  home  with  you.  You  are  silent 
on  your  return.  You  retire  early ; — but 
you  do  not  sleep  early. 

If  you  were  only  as  you  were : — if 

it  were  not  too  late  !  If  Madge  could  only 
love  you,  as  you  know  she  will,  and  must 
love  one  manly  heart,  there  would  be  a 
world  of  joy  opening  before  you. 

You  draw  out  Nelly  to  speak  of  Madge : 
Nelly  is  very  prudent.  "  Madge  is  a  dear 
girl," — she  says.  Does  Nelly  even  distrust 
you  ?  It  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  too  much  s> 
mail  of  the  world. 

You  go  back  again  to  noisy,  ambitious 
life :  you  try  to  drown  old  memories  in  its 
blaze,  and  its  vanities.  Your  lot  seems 
cast,  beyond  all  change ;  and  you  task 
yourself  with  its  noisy  fulfilment.  But 
^mid  the  silence,  and  the  toil  of  your  office 
hours,  a  strange  desire  broods  over  your 


234  DREAM-LIFE. 

spirit ; — a  desire  for  more  of  manliness. — 
that  manliness  which  feels  itself  a  protector 
of  loving,  and  trustful  innocence. 

You  look  around  upon  the  faces  in  which 
you  have  smiled  unmeaning  smiles  : — there 
is  nothing  there  to  feed  your  dawning  de 
sires.  You  meet  with  those  ready  to  court 
you  by  flattering  your  vanity — by  retailing 
the  praises  of  what  you  may  do  well, — by 
odious  familiarity, — by  brazen  proffer  of 
friendship  ;  but  you  see  in  it  only  the  emp 
tiness,  and  the  vanity,  which  you  have 
studied  to  enjoy. 

Sickness  comes  over  you,  and  binds  you 
for  weary  days  and  nights ; — in  which  life 
hovers  doubtfully,  and  the  lips  babble  se 
crets  that  you  cherish.  It  is  astonishing 
how  disease  clips  a  man  from  the  artificial 
ities  of  the  world.  Lying  lonely  upon  his 
bed,  moaning,  writhing,  suffering,  his  sou., 
joins  on  to  the  universe  of  souls  by  only 
natural  bonds.  The  factitious  ties  of 
wealth,  of  place,  of  reputation,  vanish  from 
his  bleared  eyes  ;  and  the  earnest  heart, 
deep  under  all,  craves  only — heartiness. 

The  old  yearning  of  the  office  silence 
comes  back : — not  with  the  proud  wish 
only — of  being  a  protector,  but — of  being 
protected.  And  whatever  may  be  the 
trust  in  that  beneficent  Power,  who  '  chas- 
teneth  whom  he  loveth,' — there  is  yet 


MANLY  HOPE.  135 

an  earnest,  human  leaning  toward  some 
one,  whose  love — most,  and  whose  duty — 
least,  would  call  her  to  your  side  ; — whose 
soft  hands  would  cool  the  fever  of  yours, 
— whose  step  would  wake  a  throb  of  joy,— 
whose  voice  would  tie  you  to  life,  and 
whose  presence  would  make  the  worst  of 
Death — an  Adieu  ! 

As  you  gain  strength  once  more,  you  go 
back  to  Nelly's  home.  Her  kindness  does 
not  falter ;  every  care  and  attention  belong 
to  you  there.  Again  your  eye  rests  upon 
that  figure  of  Madge,  and  upon  her  face, 
wearing  an  even  gentler  expression,  as  she 
sees  you  sitting  pale  and  feeble  by  the  old 
hearth-stone.  She  brings  flowers — for 
Nelly :  you  beg  Nelly  to  place  them  upon 
the  little  table  at  your  side.  It  is  as  yet 
the  only  taste  of  the  country  that  you  can 
enjoy.  You  love  those  flowers. 

After  a  time  you  grow  strong,  and  walk 
in  the  fields.  You  linger  until  nightfall. 
You  pass  by  the  cottage  where  Madge 
lives.  It  is  your  pleasantest  walk.  The 
.trees  are  greenest  in  that  direction;  the 
shadows  are  softest ;  the  flowers  are  thickest. 

It  is  strange — this  feeling  in  you.  It  is 
not  the  feeling  you  had  for  Laura  Dalton. 
It  does  not  even  remind  of  that.  That 
was  an  impulse  ;  but  this  is  growth.  That 
was  strong ;  i>ut  this  is — strength.  You 


«36  uffEAM-LIFE. 

catch  sight  of  her  little  notes  to  Nelly; 
you  read  them  over  and  over  ;  you  treasure 
them  ;  you  learn  them  by  heart.  There  is 
something  in  the  very  writing,  that  touches 
you. 

You  bid  her  adieu  with  tones  of  kindness 
that  tremble ; — and  that  meet  a  half -trem 
bling  tone  in  reply.  She  is  very  good. 

If  it  were  not  too  late  1 


A 


IV. 

MANLY  LOVE. 

shall  pride  yield  at  length  ? 

Pride  !  -  and  what  has  love  to 


do  with  pride  ?    Let  us  see  how  it  is. 

Madge  is  poor  ;  she  is  humble.  You  are 
rich;  you  are  a  man  of  the  world;  you  are 
met  respectfully  by  the  veterans  of  fashion  ; 
you  have  gained  perhaps  a  kind  of  brilliancy 
of  position. 

Would  it  then  be  a  condescension  to  love 
Madge?  Dare  you  ask  yourself  such  a 
question?  Do  you  not  know,  —  in  spite  of 
your  worldliness,  —  that  the  man  or  the 
woman  who  condescends  to  love,  never  loves 
in  earnest? 

But  again,  Madge  is  possessed  of  a. 
purity,  adelicacy,  and  a  dignity  that  lift  her 
far  above  you,  —  that  make  you  feel  your 
weakness,  and  your  unworthiness  ;  and  i* 
is  the  deep,  and  the  mortifying  sense  of 
this  unworthiness,  that  makes  you  bolster 
yourself  upon  your  pride.  You  know  that 

(237) 


838  DREAM-LIFE. 

you  do  yourself  honor,  in  loving  such  grace 
and  goodness  ; — you  know  that  you  would 
be  honored  tenfold  more  than  you  deserve, 
in  being  loved — by  so  much  grace,  and 
goodness. 

It  scarce  seems  to  you  possible  ;  it  is  a 
joy  too  great  to  be  hoped  for :  and  in  the 
doubt  of  its  attainment,  your  old,  worldly- 
vanity  comes  in,  and  tells  you  to — beware; 
and  to  live  on,  in  the  splendor  of  your  dis 
sipation,  and  in  the  lusts  of  your  selfish 
habit.  Yet  still,  underneath  all,  there  is  a 
deep,  low,  heart-voice, — quickened  from 
above, — which  assures  you  that  you  are 
capable  of  better  things ; — that  you  are 
not  wholly  lost ;  that  a  mine  of  unstarted 
tenderness  still  lies  smouldering  in  your 
soul. 

And  with  this  sense  quickening  your 
better  nature,  you  venture  the  wealth  of 
your  whole  heart-life,  upon  the  hope  that 
now  blazes  on  your  path. 

You  are  seated  at  your  desk,  work 
ing  with  such  zeal  of  labor,  as  your  ambi 
tious  projects  never  could  command.  It  is 
a  letter  to  Margaret  Boyne,  that  so  tasks 
your  love,  and  makes  the  veins  upon  your 
forehead  swell  with  the  earnestness  of  the 
employ. 

"DEAR   MADGE, — May   I    not   call 

you  thus,  if  only  in  memory  of  our  childish 


MANL  Y  LOVE.  139 

affections  ; — and  might  I  dare  to  hope  that 
a  riper  affection  which  your  character  has 
awakened,  may  permit  me  to  call  you  thus, 
always  ? 

"  If  I  have  not  ventured  to  speak,  dear 
Madge,  will  you  not  believe  that  the  con 
sciousness  of  my  own  ill-desert  has  tied  my 
tongue ; — will  you  not,  at  least,  give  me 
credit  for  a  little  remaining  modesty  of 
heart  ?  You  know  my  life,  and  you  know 
my  character — what  a  sad  jumble  of  errors, 
and  of  misfortunes  have  belonged  to  each. 
You  know  the  careless,  and  the  vain  pur 
poses  which  have  made  me  recreant  to  the 
better  nature,  which  belonged  to  that 
sunny  childhood,  when  we  lived,  and  grew 
up — together.  And  will  you  not  believe 
me  when  I  say,  that  your  grace  of  character, 
and  kindness  of  heart,  have  drawn  me  back 
from  the  follies  in  which  I  lived;  and 
quickened  new  desires,  which  I  thought  to 
be  wholly  dead  ?  Can  I  indeed  hope  that 
you  will  overlook  all  that  has  gained  your 
secret  reproaches ;  and  confide  in  a  heart, 
which  is  made  conscious  of  better  things, 
by  the  love — you  have  inspired  ? 

"  Ah,  Madge,  it  is  not  with  a  vain  show 
of  words,  or  with  any  counterfeit  of  feeling, 
that  I  write  now  ; — you  know  it  is  not ; — 
you  know  that  my  heart  is  leaning  toward 
you,  with  the  freshness  of  its  noblest  in 
stincts  ; — you  know  that — I  love  you  ! 


140  DREAM-LIFE. 

"  Can  I,  dare  I  hope,  that  it  is  not  spoken 
In  vain  ?  I  had  thought  in  my  pride,  never 
to  make  such  avowal, — never  again  to  sue 
for  affection;  but  your  gentleness,  your 
modesty,  your  virtues  of  life  and  heart, 
have  conquered  me.  I  am  sure  you  will 
treat  me  with  the  generosity  of  a  victor. 

"  You  know  my  weaknesses  ; — I  would 
not  conceal  from  you  a  single  one, — even 
to  win  you.  I  can  offer  nothing  to  you, 
which  will  bear  comparison  in  value,  with 
what  is  yours  to  bestow.  I  can  only  offer 
this  feeble  hand  of  mine — to  guard  you ; 
and  this  poor  heart — to  love  you  ! 

"  Am  I  rash  ?  Am  I  extravagant,  in 
word,  or  in  hope  ?  Forgive  it  then,  dear 
Madge,  for  the  sake  of  our  old  childish 
affection  ;  and  believe  me,  when  I  say,  that 
what  is  here  written, — is  written  honestly, 
and  tearfully.  Adieu." 

It  is  with  no  fervor  of  boyish  passion, 
that  you  fold  this  letter:  it  is  with  the 
trembling  hand  of  eager,  and  earnest  man 
hood.  They  tell  you  that  man  is  not  ca 
pable  of  love ; — so,  the  September  sun  is 
not  capable  of  warmth.  It  may  not  indeed 
be  so  fierce  as  that  of  July  ;  but  it  is  stead 
ier.  It  does  not  force  great  flaunting 
leaves  into  breadth  and  succulence  ;  but  it 
matures  whole  harvests  of  plenty. 


MANLY  LOVE.  941 

There  is  a  deep  and  earnest  soul  pervad 
ing  the  reply  of  Madge  that  makes  it 
sacred  ;  it  is  full  of  delicacy,  and  full  of 
hope.  Yet  it  is  not  final.  Her  heart  lies 
entrenched  within  the  ramparts  of  Duty 
and  of  Devotion.  It  is  a  citadel  of 
Strength,  in  the  middle  of  the  city  of  her 
affections.  To  win  the  way  to  it,  there 
must  be  not  only  earnestness  of  love,  but 
earnestness  of  life. 

Weeks  roll  by ;  and  other  letters  pass 
and  are  answered, — a  glow  of  warmth 
beaming  on  either  side. 

You  are  again  at  the  home  of  Nelly ; 
she  is  very  joyous;  she  is  the  confidant 
of  Madge.  Nelly  feels,  that  with  all  your 
errors,  you  have  enough  inner  goodness  of 
heart  to  make  Madge  happy ;  and  she 
feels — doubly — that  Madge  has  such  ex 
cess  of  goodness  as  will  cover  your  heart 
with  joy.  Yet  she  tells  you  very  little. 
She  will  give  you  no  full  assurance  of  the 
love  of  Madge  ;  she  leaves  that  for  yourself 
to  win. 

She  will  even  tease  you  in  her  pleasant 
way,  until  hope  almost  changes  to  despair ; 
and  your  brow  grows  pale  with  the  dread 
• — that  even  now,  your  unworthiness  may 
condemn  you. 

It  is  summer  weather ;  and  you  have 
-been  walking  over  the  hills  of  home  with 
Madge,  and  Nelly,  Nelly  has  found  some 


242  DREAM-LIFE. 

excuse  to  leave  you, — glancing  at  you  most 
teazingly,  as  she  hurries  away. 

You  are  left  sitting  with  Madge,  upon  a 
bank  tufted  with  blue  violets.  You  have 
been  talking  of  the  days  of  childhood,  and 
some  word  has  called  up  the  old  chain  of 
boyish  feeling,  and  joined  it  to  your  new 
hope. 

What  you  would  say,  crowds  too  fast  for 
utterance;  and  you  abandon  it.  But  you 
take  from  your  pocket  that  little,  broken 
bit  of  sixpence, — which  you  have  found 
after  long  search, — and  without  a  word,  but 
with  a  look  that  tells  your  inmost  thought, 
you  lay  it  in  the  half-opened  hand  of  Madge. 

She  looks  at  you,  with  a  slight  suffusion 
of  color, — seems  to  hesitate  a  moment, — 
raises  her  other  hand,  and  draws  from  her 
bosom,  by  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon,  a  little 
locket.  She  touches  a  spring,  and  there 
falls  beside  your  relique, —  another,  that 
had  once  belonged  to  it. 

Hope  glows  now  like  the  sun. 

"  And  you  have  worn  this,  Maggie  ? " 

"Always!" 

"Dear  Madge!" 

"  Dear  Clarence ! " 

And  you  pass  your  arm  now,  un 
checked,  around  that  yielding,  graceful  fig 
ure  ;  and  fold  her  to  your  bosom,  with  the 
swift,  and  blessed  assurance,  that  your  ful 
lest,  and  noblest  dream  of  love,  is  won. 


V. 

CHEER  AND  CHILDREN. 

WHAT  a  glow  there  is  to  the  sun ! 
What  warmth — yet  it  does  not  op 
press  you  :  what  coolness — yet  it 
is  not  too  cool.  The  birds  sing  sweetly ; 
you  catch  yourself  watching  to  see  what 
new  songsters  they  can  be  : — they  are  only 
the  old  robins  and  thrushes ; — yet  what  a 
new  melody  is  in  their  throats  ! 

The  clouds  hang  gorgeous  shapes  upon 
the  sky, — shapes  they  could  hardly  ever 
have  fashioned  before.  The  grass  was  never 
so  green,  the  butter-cups  were  never  so 
plenty  ;  there  was  never  such  a  life  in  the 
leaves.  It  seems  as  if  the  joyousness  in  you, 
gave  a  throb  to  nature,  that  made  every 
green  thing  buoyant. 

Faces  too  are  .changed  :  men  look  pleas 
antly  :  children  are  all  charming  children  : 
even  babies  look  tender  and  lovable.  The 
street  beggar  at  your  door  is  suddenly 
grown  into  a  Belisarius,  and  is  one  of  the 
(243) 


«44  DREAM-LIFE. 

most  deserving  heroes  of  modern  times. 
Your  mind  is  in  a  continued  ferment ;  you 
glide  through  your  toil — dashing  out  spark 
les  of  passion — like  a  ship  in  the  sea.  No 
difficulty  daunts  you :  there  is  a  kind  of 
buoyancy  in  your  soul,  that  rocks  over 
danger  or  doubt,  as  sea- waves  heave  calmly 
and  smoothly,  over  sunken  rocks. 

You  grow  unusually  amiable  and  kind; 
you  are  earnest  in  your  search  of  friends ; 
you  shake  hands  with  your  office  boy,  as  if 
he  were  your  second  cousin.  You  joke 
cheerfully  with  the  stout  washerwoman ; 
and  give  her  a  shilling  over-change,  and 
insist  upon  her  keeping  it ;  and  grow  quite 
merry  at  the  recollection  of  it.  You  tap 
your  hackman  on  the  shoulder  very  famil 
iarly,  and  tell  him  he  is  a  capital  fellow ; 
and  don't  allow  him  to  whip  his  horses, 
except  when  driving  to  the  post-office. 
You  even  ask  him  to  take  a  glass  of  beer 
with  you,  upon  some  chilly  evening.  You 
drink  to  the  health  of  his  wife. — He  says 
he  has  no  wife  : — whereupon  you  think  him 
a  very  miserable  man;  and  give  him  a 
dollar,  by  way  of  consolation. 

You  think  all  the  editorials  in  the  morn« 
ing  papers  are  remarkably  well-written, — 
whether  upon  your  side,  or  upon  the  other. 
You  think  the  stock-market  has  a  very 
cheerful  look, — even  with  Erie — of  which, 


CHEER  AND  CHILDREN.  245 

you  are  a  large  holder — down  to  seventy- 
five.  You  wonder  why  you  never  admired 
Mrs.  Remans  before,  or  Stoddard,  or  any 
of  the  rest. 

You  give  a  pleasant  twirl  to  your  fingers, 
as  you  saunter  along  the  street ;  and  say — 
but  not  so  loud  as  to  be  overheard — "  She 
is  mine — she  is  mine  !  " 

You  wonder  if  Frank  ever  loved  Nelly, 
one  half  as  well  as  you  love  Madge  ? — You 
feel  quite  sure  he  never  did.  You  can 
hardly  conceive  how  it  is,  that  Madge  has 
not  been  seized  before  now,  by  scores  of 
enamored  men,  and  borne  off,  like  the 
Sabine  women  in  Romish  history.  You 
chuckle  over  your  future,  like  a  boy  who 
has  found  a  guinea,  in  groping  for  six 
pences.  You  read  over  the  marriage  ser 
vice, — thinking  of  the  time  when  you  will 
take  her  hand,  and  slip  the  ring  upon  her 
finger;  and  repeat  after  the  clergyman — 
'  for  richer — for  poorer  ;  for  better — for 
worse.'  A  great  deal  of  'worse '  there  will 
be  about  it,  you  think  ! 

Through  all,  your  heart  cleaves  to  that 
sweet  image  of  the  beloved  Madge,  as 
light  cleaves  to  day.  The  weeks  leap  with 
a  bound  ;  and  the  months  only  grow  long, 
when  you  approach  that  day  which  is  to 
make  her  yours.  There  are  no  flowers  rare 
enough  to  make  bouquets  for  her ;  diamonds 


«46  DREAM-LIFE. 

are  too  dim  for  her  to  wear  ;  pearls  are 
tame. 

-And  after  marriage,  the  weeks  are 

even  shorter  than  before :  you  wonder  why 
on  earth  all  the  single  men  in  the  world,  do 
not  rush  tumultuously  to  the  Altar ;  you 
look  upon  them  all,  as  a  travelled  man  will 
look  upon  some  conceited  Dutch  boor,  who 
has  never  been  beyond  the  limits  of  his 
cabbage-garden.  Married  men,  on  the  con 
trary,  you  regard  as  fellow-voyagers ;  and 
look  upon  their  wives — ugly  as  they  may 
be — as,  better  than  none. 

You  blush  a  little,  at  first  telling  your 
butcher  what  '  your  wife  '  would  like ;  you 
bargain  with  the  grocer  for  sugars  and  teas, 
and  wonder  if  he  knows  that  you  are  a 
married  man  ?  You  practise  your  new  way 
of  talk  upon  your  office  boy  ; — you  tell  him 
that  '  your  wife '  expects  you  home  to  din 
ner;  and  are  astonished  that  he  does  not 
stare  to  hear  you  say  it. 

You  wonder  if  the  people  in  the  omni 
bus  know,  that  Madge  and  you  are  just 
married ;  and  if  the  driver  knows,  that  the 
shilling  you  hand  to  him,  is  for  'self  and 
wife  ? '  You  wonder  if  anybody  was  ever 
so  happy  before,  or  ever  will  be  so  happy 
again  ? 

You  enter  your  name  upon  the  hotel 
books  as  'Clarence and  Lady';  and 


CHEER  AND  CHILDREN.  247 

come  back  to  look  at  it, — wondering  if  any 
body  else  has  noticed  it, — and  thinking  that 
it  looks  remarkably  well.  You  cannot  help 
thinking  that  every  third  man  you  meet  in 
the  hall,  wishes  he  possessed  your  wife ; — • 
nor  do  you  think  it  very  sinful  in  him,  to 
wish  it.  You  fear  it  is  placing  temptation 
in  the  way  of  covetous  men,  to  put  Madge's 
little  gaiters  outside  the  chamber  door,  at 
night. 

Your  home,  when  it  is  entered,  is  just 
what  it  should  be  : — quiet,  small, — with 
everything  she  wishes,  and  nothing  more 
than  she  wishes.  The  sun  strikes  it  in  the 
happiest  possible  way : — the  piano  is  the 
sweetest-toned  in  the  world ; — the  library  is 
stocked  to  a  charm ; — and  Madge,  that 
blessed  wife,  is  there, — adorning,  and  giv 
ing  life  to  it  all.  To  think,  even,  of  her 
possible  death,  is  a  suffering  you  class  with 
the  infernal  tortures  of  the  Inquisition. 
You  grow  twain  of  heart,  and  of  purpose. 
Smiles  seem  made  for  marriage;  and  you 
wonder  how  you  ever  wore  them  before. 

So,  a  year  and  more  wears  off,  of  mingled 
home-life,  visiting,  and  travel.  A  new 
hope  and  joy  lightens  home : — there  is  a 
child  there. 

What  a  joy  to  be  a  father!  What 

new  emotions  crowd  the  eye  with  tears,  and 


248  DREAM-LIFE, 

make  the  hand  tremble  !  What  a  benevo 
lence  radiates  from  you  toward  the  nurse, 
— toward  the  physician — toward  everybody ! 
What  a  holiness,  and  sanctity  of  love  grows 
upon  your  old  devotion  to  that  wife  of  your 
bosom, — the  mother  of  your  child ! 

The  excess  of  joy  seems  almost  to  blur 
the  stories  of  happiness  which  attach  to 
heaven.  You  are  now  joined,  as  you  were 
never  joined  before,  to  the  great  family  of 
man.  Your  name  and  blood  will  live  after 
you ;  nor  do  you  once  think  (what  father 
can  ?)  but  that  it  will  live  honorably  and  well. 

With  what  a  new  air  you  walk  the  streets  ! 
With  what  a  triumph,  you  speak  in  your 
letter  to  Nelly, — of 'your  family  !'  Who, 
that  has  not  felt  it,  knows  what  it  is — to  be 
'a  man  of  family  !' 

How  weak  now,  seem  all  the  imaginations 
of  your  single  life  :  what  bare,  dry  skele 
tons  of  the  reality,  they  furnished !  You 
pity  the  poor  fellows  who  have  no  wives  or 
children, — from  your  soul :  you  count  their 
smiles,  as  empty  smiles,  put  on  to  cover 
the  lack  that  is  in  them.  There  is  a  free 
masonry  among  fathers,  that  they  know 
nothing  of.  You  compassionate  them 
deeply  :  you  think  them  worthy  objects  of 
some  charitable  association :  you  would 
cheerfully  buy  tracts  for  them,  if  the;,? 
would  but  read  them, — tracts  gn  marriage 
and  children. 


CHEER  AND  CHILDREN.  249 

And  then  'the  boy' such  a 

boy! 

There  was  a  time,  when  you  thought  all 

babies  very  much  alike  : alike  ?  Is  your 

boy  like  anything,  except  the  wonderful 
fellow  that  he  is  ?  Was  there  ever  a  baby 
seen,  or  even  read  of,  like  that  baby! 

Look  at  him  : — pick  him  up  in  his 

long,  white  gown :  he  may  have  an  excess 
of  colour, — but  such  a  pretty  colour  !  he  is 
a  little  pouty  about  the  mouth — but  such  a 
mouth  !  His  hair  is  a  little  scant,  and  he 
is  rather  wandering  in  the  eye  ; — but,  Good 
Heavens, — what  an  eye  ! 

There  was  a  time,  when  you  thought  it 
very  absurd  for  fathers  to  talk  about  their 
children  ;  but  it  does  not  seem  at  all  absurd 
now.  You  think,  on  the  contrary,  that 
your  old  friends,  who  used  to  sup  with  you 
at  the  club,  would  be  delighted  to  know 
how  your  baby  is  getting  on,  and  how  much 
he  measures  around  the  calf  of  the  leg  !  If 
they  pay  you  a  visit,  you  are  quite  sure  they 
are  in  an  agony  to  see  Frank ;  and  you 
hold  the  little  squirming  fellow  in  your 
arms,  half  conscience-smitten,  for  provok 
ing  them  to  such  envy,  as  they  must  be 
suffering.  You  make'  a  settlement  upon 
the  boy  with  a  chuckle, — as  if  you  were 
treating  yourself  to  a  mint-julep, — instead 
of  conveying  away  a  few  thousands  of  seven 
per  cents. 


850  DREAM-LIFE. 

Then  the  boy  developes,  astonish' 

ingly.  What  a  head — what  a  foot, — what  a 
voice  !  And  he  is  so  quiet  withal ; — never 
known  to  cry,  except  under  such  provoca 
tion  as  would  draw  tears  from  a  heart  of 
adamant ;  in  short,  for  the  first  six  months, 
he  is  never  anything,  but  gentle,  patient, 
earnest,  loving,  intellectual,  and  magnani 
mous.  You  are  half  afraid  that  some  of 
the  physicians  will  be  reporting  the  case, 
as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  instances 
of  perfect  moral  and  physical  development, 
on  record. 

But  the  years  roll  on,  in  the  which  your 
extravagant  fancies,  die  into  the  earnest 
maturity  of  a  father's  love.  You  struggle 
gaily  with  the  cares  that  life  brings  to  your 
door.  You  feel  the  strength  of  three  beings 
in  your  single  arm ;  and  feel  your  heart 
warming  toward  God  and  man,  with  the 
added  warmth  of  two  other  loving,  and 
trustful  beings. 

How  eagerly  you  watch  the  first  totter 
ing  step  of  that  boy  :  how  you  riot  in  the 
joy  and  pride,  that  swell  in  that  mother's 
eyes,  as  they  follow  his  feeble,  staggering 
motions !  Can  God  bless  his  creatures, 
more  than  he  has  blessed  that  dear  Madge, 
and  you  ?  Has  Heaven  even  richer  joys, 
than  live  in  that  home  of  yours  ? 

By  and  by,  he  speaks;   and   minds  tie 


CHEER  AND  CHILDREN.  251 

together  by  language,  as  the  hearts  have 
long  tied  by  looks.  He  wanders  with  you, 
feebly,  and  with  slow,  wondering  paces, 
upon  the  verge  of  the  great  universe  of 
thought.  Kis  little  eye  sparkles  with  some 
vague  fancy  that  co~nes  upon  him  first,  by 
language.  Madge  teaches  him  the  words 
of  affection,  and  of  thankfulness  ;  and  she 
teaches  him  to  lisp  infant  prayer;  and  by 
secret  pains,  (how  could  she  be  so  secret  ?) 
instructs  him  in  some  little  phrase  of  en 
dearment,  that  she  knows  will  touch  your 
heart ;  and  then,  she  watches  your  coming ; 
and  the  little  fellow  runs  toward  you,  and 
warbles  out  his  lesson  of  love,  in  tones  that 
forbid  you  any  answer, — save  only  those 
brimming  eyes, — turned  first  on  her,  and 
then  on  him  ; — and  poorly  concealed,  by  the 
quick  embrace,  and  the  kisses  which  you 
shower  in  transport ! 

Still  slip  on  the  years,  like  brimming 
bowls  of  nectar.  Another  Madge  is  sister 
to  Frank;  and  a  little  Nelly,  is  younger 
sister  to  this  other  Madge. 

Three  of  them — a  charmed,  and 

mystic  number; — which  if  it  be  broken  in 
these  young  days, — as,  alas,  it  may  be ! — 
will  only  yield  a  cherub  angel,  to  float  over 
you,  and  to  float  over  them — to  wean  you, 
and  to  wean  them,  from  this  world,  where 
all  joys  do  perish,  to  that  seraph  world, 
where  joys  do  last  forever. 


VI. 

A  DREAM  OF  DARKNESS. 

IS  our  life  a  sun,  that  it  should  radiate 
light  and  heat  forever?  Do  not  the 
calmest,  and  brightest  days  of  autumn, 
show  clouds  that  drift  their  ragged  edges 
over  the  golden  disc ;  and  bear  down  swift, 
with  their  weight  of  vapors,  until  the  whole 
sun's  surface  is  shrouded ; — and  you  can 
see  no  shadow  of  tree,  or  flower  upon  the 
land,  because  of  the  greater,  and  gulphing 
shadow  of  the  cloud? 

Will  not  life  bear  me  out ; — will  not  truth, 
earnest  and  stern,  around  me,  make  good 
the  terrible  imagination  that  now  comes 
swooping  heavily,  and  darkly,  upon  my 
brain  ? 

You  are  living  in  a  little  village,  not  far 
away  from  the  city.  It  is  a  graceful,  and 
luxurious  home  that  you  possess.  The 
holly  and  the  laurel  gladden  its  lawn  in 
winter;  and  bowers  of  blossoms  sweeten 
it  through  all  the  summer.  You  know, 
(252) 


A  DREAM-  OF  DARKNESS.  253 

each  day  of  your  return  from  the  town, 
where  first  you  will  catch  sight  of  that 
graceful  figure,  flitting  like  a  shadow  of 
love,  beneath  the  trees :  you  know  well, 
where  you  will  meet  the  joyous,  and  noisy 
welcome  of  stout  Frank,  and  of  tottling 
Nelly.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after 
week,  they  fail  not. 

A  friend  sometimes  attends  you  ;  and  a 
friend  to  you,  is  always  a  friend  to  Madge. 
In  the  city,  you  fall  in  once  more  with  your 
old  acquaintance  Dalton  ;  —  the  graceful, 
winning,  yet  dissolute  man  that  his  youth 
promised.  He  wishes  to  see  your  cottage 
home.  Your  heart  half  hesitates :  yet  it 
seems  folly  to  cherish  distrust  of  a  boon 
companion,  in  so  many  of  your  revels. 

Madge  receives  him  with  that  sweet 
smile,  which  welcomes  all  your  friends.  He 
gains  the  heart  of  Frank,  by  talking  of  his 
toys,  and  of  his  pigeons  ;  and  he  wins  upon 
the  tenderness  of  the  mother,  by  his  atten 
tions  to  the  child.  Even  you,  repent  of 
your  passing  shadow  of  dislike,-  and  feel 
your  heart  warming  toward  him,  as  he  takes 
little  Nelly  in  his  arms,  and  provokes  her 
joyous  prattle. 

Madge  is  unbounded  in  her  admiration 
of  your  friend  :  he  renews,  at  your  solicita 
tion,  his  visit :  he  proves  kinder  than  ever 
and  you  grow  ashamed  of  your  distrust. 


»54  DREAM-LIFE. 

Madge  is  not  learned  in  the  arts  of  a 
city  life :  the  accomplishments  of  a  man  of 
the  world  are  almost  new  to  her :  she  lis 
tens  with  eagerness  to  Dalton's  graphic 
stories  of  foreign  fetes,  and  luxury :  she  is 
charmed  with  his  clear,  bold  voice,  and  with 
his  manly  execution  of  little  operatic  airs. 

She  is  beautiful — that  wife  who  has 

made  your  heart  whole,  by  its  division — 
fearfully  beautiful.  And  she  is  not  cold, 
or  impassive:  her 'heart  though  fond,  and 
earnest,  is  yet  human : — we  are  all  human. 
The  accomplishments  and  graces  of  the 
world  must  needs  take  hold  upon  her  fancy-. 
And  a  fear  creeps  over  you,  that  you  dare 
not  whisper, — that  those  graces  may  cast 
into  the  shade,  your  own  yearning,  and 
silent  tenderness. 

But  this  is  a  selfish  fear,  that  you  think 
you  have  no  right  to  cherish.  She  takes 
pleasure  in  the  society  of  Dalton, — what 
right  have  you,  to  say  her — nay?  His 
character  indeed  is  not  altogether  such  as 
you  could- wish;  but  will  it  not  be  selfish 
to  tell  her  even  this  ?  Will  it  not  be  even 
worse,  and  show  taint  of  a  lurking  suspi 
cion,  which  you  know  would  wound  her 
grievously  ?  You  struggle  with  your  dis 
trust,  by  meeting  him  more  kindly  than 
ever  :  yet,  at  times,  there  will  steal  over 
you  a  sadness, — which  that  dear  Madge 


A  DREAM  OF  DARKNESS.  255 

detects,  and  sorrowing  in  her  turn,  tries  to 
draw  away  from  you  by  the  touching  kind 
ness  of  sympathy.  Her  look,  and  manner 
kill  all  your  doubt ;  and  you  show  that  it 
is  gone,  and  piously  conceal  the  cause,  by 
welcoming  in  gayer  tones  than  ever,  the 
man  who  has  fostered  it,  by  his  presence. 

Business  calls  you  away  to  a  great  dis 
tance  from  home  :  it  is  the  first  long  part 
ing  of  your  real  manhood.  And  can  sus 
picion,  or  a  fear,  lurk  amid  those  tearful 

embraces  ?  Not  one, thank  God, — not 

one  i 

Your  letters,  frequent  and  earnest,  be 
speak  your -increased  devotion;  and  the 
embraces  you  bid  her  give  to  the  sweet 
ones  of  your  little  flock,  tell  of  the  calm 
ness,  and  sufficiency  of  your  love.  Her 
letters  too,  are  running  over  with  affection : 
— what  though  she  mentions  the  frequent 
visits  of  Dalton,  and  tells  stories  of  his 
kindness  and  attachment  ?  You  feel  safe 
in  her  strength :  and  yet — yet  there  is  a 
brooding  terror  that  rises  out  of  your 
knowledge  of  Dalton's  character. 

And  can  you  tell  her  this  ;  can  you  stab 
her  fondness,  now  that  you  are  away,  with 
even  a  hint  of  what  would  crush  her  deli 
cate  nature  ? 

What  you  know  •  to  be  love,  and  what 
you  fancy  to  be  duty,  struggle  long :  but 


S3&  DREAM-LIFE. 

love  conquers.  And  with  sweet  trust  in 
her,  and  double  trust  in  God,  you  await 
your  return.  That  return  will  be  speedier 
than  you  think. 

You  receive  one  day  a  letter :  it  is  ad 
dressed  in  the  hand  of  a  friend,  who  is  ofter 
at  the  cottage,  but  who  has  rarely  written 
to  you.  What  can  have  tempted  him  now  ? 
Has  any  harm  come  near  your  home  ?  No 
wonder  your  hands  tremble  at  the  opening 

of  that  sheet ; no  wonder  that  your  eyes 

run  like  lightning  over  the  hurried  lines. 
Yet  there  is  little  in  them — very  little. 
The  hand  is  stout  and  fair.  It  is  a  calm 
letter, — a  friendly  letter ;  but  it  is  short — 
terribly  short.  It  bids  you  come  home — 
'  at  once  /' 

And  you  go.  It  is  a  pleasant  coun 
try  you  have  to  travel  through  ;  but  you 
see  very  little  of  the  country.  It  is  a  dan 
gerous  voyage  perhaps,  you  have  to  make ; 
but  you  think  very  little  of  the  danger. 
The  creaking  of  the  timbers,  and  the  lash 
ing  of  the  waves,  are  quieting  music,  com 
pared  with  the  storm  of  your  raging  fears. 
A.11  the  while,  you  associate  Dalton  with 
'he  terror  that  seems  to  hang  over  you ; 
and  /^t, — your  trust  in  Madge,  is  true  as 
Heaven ! 

At  length  you  approach  that  home; — 
there  lies  your  cottage  lying  sweetly  upon 


A  DREAM  OF  DARKNESS.  257 

its  hill-side;  and  the  autumn  winds  are 
soft ;  and  the  maple-tops  sway  gracefully, 
all  clothed  in  the  scarlet  of  their  frost- 
dress.  Once  again,  as  the  sun  sinks  behind 
the  mountain  with  a  trail  of  glory,  and  the 
violet  haze  tints  the  grey  clouds,  like  so 
many  robes  of  angels, — you  take  heart  and 
courage ;  and  with  firm  reliance  on  the 
Providence  that  fashions  all  forms  of  beauty, 
whether  in  Heaven  or  in  heart, — your 
fears  spread  out,  and  vanish  with  the  wan 
ing  twilight. 

She  is  not  at  the  cottage  door  to  meet 
you  ;  she  does  not  expect  you ;  and  yet 
your  bosom  heaves,  and  your  breathing  is 
quick.  Your  friend  meets  you,  and  shakes 

your  hand. "  Clarence,"  he  says,  with 

the  tenderness  of  an  old  friend, — "  be  a 
man  ! " 

Alas,  you  are  a  man ;  — with  a  man' s 
heart,  and  a  man's  fear,  and  a  man's  agony! 
Little  Frank  comes  bounding  toward  you 
joyously — yet  under  traces  of  tears  : — "  Oh, 
Papa,  Mother  is  gone  ! " 

"Gone!" And  you  turn  to  the 

face  of  your  friend  ; — it  is  well  he  is  near 
by,  or  you  would  have  fallen. 

He  can  tell  you  very  little  ;  he  has  known 
the  character  of  Dalton  ;  he  has  seen  with 
fear  his  assiduous  attentions — tenfold  mul 
tiplied  since  your  leave.  He  has  trembled 
I 


•91  DREAM-LIFE. 

for  the  issue  :  this  very  morning  'ne  ob 
served  a  travelling  carriage  at  the  door ; — 
they  drove  away  together.  You  have  no 
strength  to  question  him.  You  see  that 
he  fears  the  worst : — he  does  not  know 
Madge,  so  well  as  you. 

And  can  it  be  ?  Are  you  indeed 

widowed  with  that  most  terrible  of  widow 
hoods? — Is  your  wife  living, — and  yet — 
lost !  Talk  not  to  such  a  man  of  the  woes 
of  sickness,  of  poverty,  of  death ; — he  will 
laugh  at  your  mimicry  of  grief. 

All  is  blackness  ;  whichever  way  you 

turn,  it  is  the  same  ;  there  is  no  light ;  your 
eye  is  put  out ;  your  soul  is  desolate  for 
ever.  The  heart,  by  which  you  had  grown 
up  into  the  full  stature  of  joy,  and  bless 
ing,  is  rooted  out  of  you,  and  thrown  like 
something  loathsome,  at  which  the  carrion 
dogs  of  the  world  scent,  and  snuffle ! 

They  will  point  at  you,  as  the  man  who 
has  lost  all  that  he  prized ;  and  she  has 
stolen  it,  whom  he  prized  more  than  what 
was  stolen.  And  he,  the  accursed  mis 
creant But  no,  it  can  never  be. 

Madge  is  as  true  as  Heaven  ! 

Yet  she  is  not  there :  whence  comes  the 
light  that  is  to  cheer  you  ? 

Your  children  ? 

Aye,  your  children, — your  little  Nelly, 
—your  noble  Frank, — they  are  yours;— 


A  DREAM"  OF  DARKNESS.  259 

doubly,  trebly,  tenfold  yours,  now  that  she, 
their  mother,  is  a  mother  no  more  to  them, 
forever ! 

Aye,  close  your  doors ;  shut  out  the 
world ; — draw  close  your  curtains  ; — fold 
them  to  your  heart, — your  crushed,  bleed 
ing,  desolate  heart.  Lay  your  forehead  to 
the  soft  cheek  of  your  noble  boy  ; — beware, 
beware  how  you  dampen  that  damask  cheek 
with  your  scalding  tears : — yet  you  cannot 
help  it ; — they  fall — great  drops, — a  river 
of  tears,  as  you  gather  him  convulsively  to 
your  bosom  ! 

"  Father,  why  do  you  cry  so  ? "  says 
Frank,  with  the  tears  of  dreadful  sympathy 
starting  from  those  eyes  of  childhood. 

"Why,  Papa?" — mimes  little  Nelly. 

Answer  them  if  you  dare !  Try  it ; 

— what  words — blundering,  weak  words, — 
choked  with  agony, — leading  no  where, — 
ending  in  new,  and  convulsive  clasps  of 
your  weeping,  motherless  children. 

Had  she  gone  to  her  grave,  there  would 
have  been  a  holy  joy — a  great,  and  swell 
ing  grief  indeed, — but  your  poor  heart 
would  have  found  a  rest  in  the  quiet  church 
yard;  and  your  feelings  rooted  in  that 
cherished  grave,  would  have  stretched  up 
toward  Heaven  their  delicate  leaves,  and 
caught  the  dews  of  His  grace,  who  watcheth 
the  lilies.  But  now, — with  your  heart  cast 


>6o  DREAM-LIFE. 

under  foot,  or  buffeted  on  the  lips  of  a 
lying  world, — finding  no  shelter,  and  no 
abiding  place alas,  we  do  guess  at  infini 
tude,  only  by  suffering. 

Madge,    Madge !    can    this  be  so  ? 

Are  you  not  still  the  same,  sweet,  guileless 
child  of  Heaven? 


V1L 

PEACE. 

IT  is  a  dream ; — fearful  to  be  sure, — but 
only  a  dream.  Madge  is  true.  That 
soul  is  honest ;  it  could  not  be  other 
wise.  God  never  made  it  to  be  false ;  He 
never  made  the  sun  for  darkness. 

And  before  the  evening  has  waned  to 
midnight,  sweet  day  has  broken  on  your 
gloom  ; — Madge  is  folded  to  your  bosom  ; 
— sobbing  fearfully  : — not  for  guilt,  or  any 
shadow  of  guilt,  but  for  the  agony  she  reads 
upon  your  brow,  and  in  your  low  sighs. 

The  mystery  is  all  cleared  by  a  few  light 
ning  words  from  her  indignant  lips  :  and 
her  whole  figure  trembles,  as  she  shrinks 
within  your  embrace,  witn  the  thought  of 
that  great  evil,  that  seemed  to  shadow  you. 
The  villain  has  sought  by  every  art  to  be 
guile  her  into  appearance  which  should 
compromise  her  character,  and  so  wound 
her  delicacy,  as  to  take  away  the  courage 
for  return  :  he  has  even  wrought  upon  her 
(261) 


362  DREAM-LIFE. 

affection  for  you,  as  his  master-weapon  :  a 
skilfully-contrived  story  of  some  accident 
that  had  befallen  you,  had  wrought  upon 
her — to  the  sudden,  and  silent  leave  of 
home.  But  he  has  failed.  At  the  first 
suspicion  of  his  falsity,  her  dignity  and 
virtue  shivered  all  his  malice.  She  shud 
ders  at  the  bare  thought  of  that  fiendish 
scheme,  which  has  so  lately  broken  on 
her  view. 

"  Oh,  Clarence,  Clarence,  could  you  for 
one  moment  believe  this  of  me  ?" 

"  Dear  Madge,  forgive  me,  if  a  dreamy 
horror  did  for  an  instant  palsy  my  better 
thought ; — it  is  gone  utterly ; — it  will  never 
— never  come  again  !  " 

And  there  she  leans,  with  her  head  pil 
lowed  on  your  shoulder,  the  same  sweet 
angel,  that  has  led  you  in  the  way  of 
light ;  and  who  is  still  your  blessing,  and 
your  pride. 

He — and  you  forbear  to  name  his  name 
— is  gone  ; — flying  vainly  from  the  con 
sciousness  of  guilt,  with  the  curse  of  Cain 
upon  him, — hastening  toward  the  day, 
when  Satan  shall  clutch  his  own. 

A  heavenly  peace  descends  upon  you 
that  night ; — all  the  more  sacred  and  calm, 
for  the  fearful  agony  that  has  gone  before. 
A  Heaven  that  seemed  lost,  is  yours.  A 
love  that  you  had  almost  doubted,  is  beyond 


PEACE.  263 

all  suspicion.  A  heart  that  in  the  madness 
of  your  frenzy,  you  had  dared  to  question, 
you  worship  now,  with  blushes  of  shame. 
You  thank  God,  for  this  great  goodness, 
as  you  never  thanked  him  for  any  earthly 
blessing  before ;  and  with  this  twin  grati 
tude  lying  on  your  hearts,  and  clearing 
your  face  to  smiles,  you  live  on  together 
the  old  life  of  joy,  and  of  affection. 

Again  with  brimming  nectar,  the  years 
fill  up  their  vases.  Your  children  grow  in 
to  the  same  earnest  joyousness,  and  with  the 
same  home  faith,  which  lightened  upon 
your  young  dreams ;  and  toward  which,  you 
seem  to  go  back,  as  you  riot  with  them  in 
their  Christmas  joys,  or  upon  the  velvety 
lawn  of  June. 

Anxieties  indeed  overtake  you  ;  but  they 
are  those  anxieties  which  only  the  selfish 
would  avoid — anxieties  that  better  the  heart, 
with  a  great  weight  of  tenderness.  It  may 
be,  that  your  mischievous  Frank  runs  wild 
with  the  swift  blood  of  boyhood,  and  that 
the  hours  are  long,  which  wait  his  coming. 
It  may  be  that  your  heart  echoes  in  silence, 
the  mother's  sobs,  as  she  watches  his  fits 
of  waywardness,  and  showers  upon  his  very 
neglect,  excess  of  love. 

Danger  perhaps  creeps  upon  little,  joyous 
Nelly,  which  makes  you  tremble  for  her  life; 


964  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  mother's  tears  are  checked  that  she 
may  not  deepen  your  grief;  and  her  care 
guards  the  little  sufferer,  like  a  Providence. 
The  nights  hang  long  and  heavy ;  dull, 
stifled  breathing  wakes  the  chamber  with 
ominous  sound;  the  mother's  eye  scarce 
closes,  but  rests  with  fond  sadness  upon  the 
little  struggling  victim  of  sickness ;  her 
hand  rests  like  an  angel  touch  upon  the 
brow,  all  beaded  with  the  heats  of  fever ; 
the  straggling,  gray  light  of  morning  breaks 
through  the  crevices  of  the  closed  blinds, — 
bringing  stir,  and  bustle  to  the  world,  but, 
in  your  home, — lighting  only  the  darkness. 

Hope  sinking  in  the  mother's  heart,  takes 
hold  on  Faith  in  God ;  and  her  prayer,  and 
her  placid  look  of  submission, — more  than 
all  your  philosophy, — add  strength  to  your 
faltering  courage. 

But  little  Nelly  brightens ;  her  faded 
features  take  on  bloom  again ;  she  knows 
you ;  she  presses  your  hand ;  she  draws 
down  your  cheek  to  her  parched  lip ;  she 
kisses  you,  and  smiles.  The  mother's  brow 
loses  its  shadow  ;  day  dawns  within,  as  well 
as  without ;  and  on  bended  knees,  God  is 
thanked  ! 

Perhaps  poverty  faces  you  ; — your  darling 
schemes  break  down.  One  by  one,  with 
failing  heart,  you  strip  the  luxuries  from 
life.  But  the  sorrow  which  oppresses  you, 


PEACE.  265 

is  not  the  selfish  sorrow  which  the  lone 
man  feels  ;  it  is  far  nobler ;  its  chiefest 
mourning  is  over  the  despoiled  home. 
Frank  must  give  up  his  promised  travel ; 
Madge  must  lose  her  favorite  pony  ;  Nelly 
must  be  denied  her  little  fete  upon  the  lawn. 
The  home  itsedf,  endeared  by  so  many  scenes 
of  happiness,  and  by  so  many  of  suffering — • 
must  be  given  up.  It  is  hard — very  hard  to 
tear  away  your  wife,  from  the  flowers,  the 
birds,  the  luxuries,  that  she  has  made  so 
dear. 

Now,  she  is  far  stronger  than  you.  She 
contrives  new  joys  ;  she  wears  a  holy  calm ; 
she  cheers  by  a  new  hopefulness ;  she 
buries  even  the  memory  of  luxury,  in  the 
riches  of  the  humble  home,  that  her  wealth 
of  heart  endows.  Her  soul,  catching  radi 
ance  from  that  Heavenly  world,  where  her 
hope  lives,  kindles  amid  the  growing  shad 
ows,  and  sheds  balm  upon  the  little  griefs, 
— like  the  serene  moon,  slanting  the  dead 
sun's  life,  upon  the  night. 

Courage  wakes  in  the  presence  of  those 
dependent  on  your  toil.  Love  arms  your 
hand,  and  quickens  your  brain.  Resolu 
tions  break  large  from  the  swelling  soul. 
Energy  leaps  into  your  action,  like  light. 
Gradually  you  bring  back  into  your  humble 
home,  a  few  traces  of  the  luxury  that  once 
adorned  it.  That  wife  whom  it  is  your 


266  DREAM-LIFE. 

greatest  pleasure  to  win  to  smiles, — wears 
a  half  sad  look,  as  she  meets  these  proofs 
of  love  ;  she  fears  that  you  are  perilling  too 
much,  for  her  pleasure. 

For  the  first  time  in  life  you  de 
ceive  her.  You  have  won  wealth  again ; 
you  now  step  firmly  upon  your  new-gained 
sandals  of  gold.  But  you  conceal  it  from 
her.  You  contrive  a  little  scheme  of  sur 
prise,  with  Frank  alone,  in  the  secret. 

You  purchase  again  the  old  home  ;  you 
stock  it,  as  far  as  may  be,  with  the  old  lux 
uries  ;  a  new  harp  is  in  the  place  of  that  one 
which  beguiled  so  many  hours  of  joy;  new 
and  cherished  flowers  bloom  again  upon  the 
window ;  her  birds  hang,  and  warble  their 
melody,  where  they  warbled  it  before.  A 
pony — like  as  possible  to  the  old — is  there 
for  Madge ;  a  f£te  is  secretly  contrived 
upon  the  lawn.  You  even  place  the  old, 
familiar  books,  upon  the  parlor  table. 

The  birth-day  of  your  own  Madge,  is  ap 
proaching  : — a  fete  you  never  pass  by, 
without  home-rejoicings.  You  drive  over 
with  her,  upon  that  morning,  for  another 
look  at  the  old  place  ;  a  cloud  touches  her 
brow, — but  she  yields  to  your  wish.  An 
old  servant, — whom  you  had  known  in  bet 
ter  days — throws  open  the  gates. 

"  It  is  too — too  sad,"  says  Madge — 

"  let  us  go  back,  Clarence,  to  our  own  home ; 
—we  are  happy  there." 


PEACE.  267 


-"A  little  farther,  Madge." 


The  wife  steps  slowly  over  what  seems 
the  sepulchre  of  so  many  pleasures ;  the 
children  gambol  as  of  old,  and  pick  flowers. 
But  the  mother  checks  them. 

"  They  are  not  ours  now,  my  children  ! " 
'  You  stroll  to  the  very  door;  the  gold 
finches  are  hanging  upon  the  wall ;  the 
mignionette  is  in  the  window.  You  feel 
the  hand  of  Madge  trembling  upon  your 
arm  ;  she  is  struggling  with  her  weakness. 

A  tidy  waiting  woman  shows  you  into 

the  old  parlor : there  is  a  harp ;  and 

there  too,  such  books  as  we  loved  to  read. 

Madge  is  overcome  ;  now,  she  entreats  : 
— "  Let  us  go  away,  Clarence  !  "  and  she 
hides  her  face. 

"  Never,  dear  Madge,  never !  it  is 

yours — all  yours  ! " 

She  looks  up  in  your  face ;  she  sees  your 
look  of  triumph ;  she  catches  sight  of 
Frank  bursting  in  at  the  old  hall-door,  all 
radiant  with  joy. 

"Frank! — CUrence  !  " — the  tears 

forbid  any  more. 

"God  bless  you,  Madge!  God  bless 
you!" 

And  thus,  in  peace  and  in  joy,  MANHOOD 
passes  on  into  the  third  season  of  our  life 
— even  as  golden  AUTUMN,  sinks  slowly 
into  the  tomb  of  WINTER. 


WINTER 


OR 


THE  DREAMS  OF  AGE. 


DREAMS  OF  AGE. 


WINTER. 

SLOWLY,  thickly,  fastly,  fall  the  snow 
flakes, — like  the  seasons  upon  the  life 
of  man.  At  the  first,  they  lose  them 
selves  in  the  brown  mat  of  herbage,  or 
gently  melt,  as  they  fall  upon  the  broad 
stepping  stone  at  the  door.  But  as  hour 
after  hour  passes,  the  feathery  flakes 
stretch  their  white  cloak  plainly  on  the 
meadow,  and  chilling  the  doorstep  with 
their  multitude,  cover  it  with  a  mat  of 
pearl. 

The  dried  grass  tips  pierce  the  mantle  of 
white,  like  so  many  serried  spears  ;  but  as 
the  storm  goes  softly  on,  they  sink  one  by 
one  to  their  snowy  tomb ;  and  presently 
show  nothing  of  all  their  army,  save  one  or 
two  straggling  banners  of  blackened  and 
shrunken  daisies. 

Across  the  wide  meadow  that  stretches 
from  my  window,  I   can  see  nothing  of 
(271) 


«72  DREAM-LIFE. 

those  hills  which  were  so  green  in  summer : 
between  me  and  them,  lie  only  the  soft, 
slow  moving  masses,  filling  the  air  with 
whiteness.  I  catch  only  a  glimpse  of  one 
gaunt,  and  bare -armed  oak,  looming 
through  the  feathery  multitude,  like  a 
tall  ship's  spars  breaking  through  fog.  ' 

The  roof  of  the  barn  is  covered ;  and  the 
leaking  eaves  show  dark  stains  of  water, 
that  trickle  down  the  weather-beaten 
boards.  The  pear-trees  that  wore  such 
weight  of  greenness  in  the  leafy  June,  now 
stretch  their  bare  arms  to  the  snowy  blast, 
and  carry  upon  each  tiny  bough,  a  narrow 
burden  of  winter. 

The  old  house  dog  marches  stately 
through  the  strange  covering  of  earth,  and 
seems  to  ponder  on  the  welcome  he  will 
show, — and  shakes  the  flakes  from  his  long 
ears,  and  with  a  vain  snap  at  a  floating 
feather,  he  stalks  again  to  his  dry  covert  in 
the  shed.  The  lambs  that  belonged  to  the 
meadow  flock,  with  their  feeding  ground 
all  covered,  seem  to  wonder  at  their  losses; 
but  take  courage  from  the  quiet  air  of  the 
veteran  sheep,  and  gambol  after  them,  as 
they  move  sedately  toward  the  shelter  of 
the  barn. 

The  cat,  driven  from  the  kitchen  door, 
beats  a  coy  retreat,  with  long  reaches  of 
her  foot,  upon  the  yielding  surface.  The 


WINTER.  273 

matronly  hens  saunter  out,  at  a  little  lifting 
of  the  storm ;  and  eye  curiously,  with 
heads  half  turned,  their  sinking  steps  ;  and 
then  fall  back  with  a  quiet  cluck  of  satis 
faction,  to  the  wholesome  gravel  by  the 
stable  door. 

By  and  by,  the  snow  flakes  pile  more 
leisurely  :  they  grow  large  and  scattered, 
and  come  more  slowly  than  before.  The 
hills  that  were  brown,  heave  into  sigb:: — 
great,  rounded  billows  of  white.  The  gray 
woods  look  shrunken  to  half  their  height, 
and  stand  wading  in  the  storm.  The  wind 
freshens,  and  scatters  the  light  flakes  that 
crown  the  burden  of  the  snow ;  and  as  the 
day  droops,  a  clear,  bright  sky  of  steel 
color,  cleaves  the  land,  and  clouds,  and 
sends  down  a  chilling  wind  to  bank  tae 
walls,  and  to  freeze  the  sterm.  The  moon 
rises  full  and  round,  and  plays  with  a  joy 
ous  chill,  over  the  glistening  raiment  of 
the  land. 

I  pile  my  fire  with  the  clean  cleft  hick 
ory;  and  musing  over  some  sweet  story  of 
the  olden  time,  i  wander  into  a  rich  realm 
of  thought,  until  my  eyes  grow  dim,  and 
dreaming  of  battle  and  of  prince,  I  fall  to 
sleep  in  my  old  farm  chamber. 

At  morning,  I  find  my  dreams  all  written 
on  the  window,  in  crystals  of  fairy  shape. 
The  cattle,  one  by  one,  with  ears  frost- 
tipped,  and  with  frosted  noses,  wend  their 


274  DREAM-LIFE. 

way  to  the  watering-place  in  the  meadow. 
One  by  one  they  drink,  and  crop  at  the 
stunted  herbage,  which  the  warm  spring 
keeps  green  and  bare. 

A  hound  bays  in  the  distance  ;  the  smoke 
of  cottages  r»es  straight  toward  Heaven ; 
a  lazy  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  wakens  the 
quiet  of  the  high-road ;  and  upon  the  hills, 
the  leafless  woods  stand  low,  like  crouch 
ing  armies,  with  guns  and  spears  in  rest ; 
and  among  them,  the  scattered  spiral  pines 
rise  like  banner-men,  uttering  with  their 
thousand  tongues  of  green,  the  proud  war- 
cry — 'God  is  with  us  ! ' 

But,  the  sky  of  winter  is  as  capricious 
as  the  sky  of  spring — even  as  the  old  wan 
der  in  thought,  like  the  vagaries  of  a  boy. 

Before  noon,  the  heavens  are  mantled 
with  a  leaden  gray  ;  the  eaves  that  leaked 
in  the  glow  of  the  sun,  now  tell  their  tale 
of  morning's  warmth,  in  crystal  ranks  of 
icicles.  The  cattle  seek  their  shelter;  the 
few,  lingering  leaves  of  the  white  oaks, 
rustle  dismally ;  the  pines  breathe  sighs  of 
mourning.  As  the  night  darkens,  and 
deepens  the  storm,  the  house  dog  bays; 
the  children  crouch  in  the  wide  chimney 
corners  ;  the  sleety  rain  comes  in  sharp 
gusts.  And,  as  I  sit  by  the  light  leaping 
blaze  in  my  chamber,  the  scattered  hail- 
drops  beat  upon  my  window,  like  the  tap 
pings  of  an  OLD  MAN'S  cane. 


WHAT  IS  GONE. 

GONE  !  Did  it  ever  strike  you,  my 
reader,  how  much  meaning  lies  in 
that  little  monosyllable — gone  ?  Say 
it  to  yourself  at  nightfall,  when  the  sun  has 
sunk  under  the  hills,  and  the  crickets  chirp 
— 'gone.'  Say  it  to  yourself,  when  the 
night  is  far  over,  and  you  wake  with  some 
sudden  start,  from  pleasant  dreams, — 
'gone.'  Say  it  to  yourself  in  some  country 
churchyard,  where  your  father,  or  your 
mother,  sleeps  under  the  blooming  violets  of 
spring — 'gone.'  Say  it,  in  your  sobbing 
prayer  to  Heaven,  as  you  cling  lovingly,  but 
oh,  how  vainly,  to  the  hand  of  your  sweet 
\vife — '  gone  ! 

Aye,  is  there  not  meaning  in  it  ?  And 
now,  what  is  gone  ; — or  rather,  what  is  not 
gone  ?  Childhood  is  gone  with  all  its 
blushes,  and  fairness, — with  all  its  health 
and  wanton,  —  with  all  its  smiles,  like 
glimpses  of  heaven ;  and  all  its  tears,  which 
were  but  the  suffusion  of  joy. 

(275) 


Vj6  DREAM-LIFE. 

Youth  is  gone  ; — bright,  hopeful  youth, 
when  you  counted  the  years  with  jewelled 
numbers,  and  hung  lamps  of  ambition  at 
your  path,  which  lighted  the  palace  of 
renown ; — when  the  days  were  woven  into 
weeks  of  blithe  labor,  and  the  weeks  were 
rolled  into  harvest  months  of  triumph,  and 
the  months  were  bound  into  golden  sheaves 
of  years — all,  gone ! 

The  strength  and  pride  of  manhood  is 
gone ;  your  heart  and  soul  have  stamped 
their  deepest  dye ;  the  time  of  power  is 
past ;  your  manliness  has  told  its  tale ; 
henceforth  your  career  is  down; hither 
to,  you  have  journeyed  up.  You  look  back 
upon  a  decade,  as  you  once  looked  upon  a 
half  score  of  months ;  a  year  has  become  to 
your  slackened  memory,  and  to  your  dull 
perceptions,  like  a  week  of  childhood.  Sud 
denly  and  swiftly,  come  past  you,  great 
whirls  of  gone-by  thought,  and  wrecks  of 
vain  labor,  eddying  upon  the  stream  that 
rushes  to  the  grave.  The  sweeping  out 
lines  of  life,  that  lay  once  before  the  vision 
• — rolling  into  wide  billows  of  years,  like 
easy  lifts  of  a  broad  mountain-range, — now 
seem  close-packed  together,  as  with  a  Ti 
tan  hand  ;  and  you  see  only  crowded,  craggy 
heights, — like  Alpine  fastnesses — parted 
with  glaciers  of  grief,  and  leaking  abundant 
tears. 


WJHA  T  IS  GONE.  277 

Your  friends  are  gone ; — they  who  coun 
selled  and  advised  you,  and  who  protected 
your  weakness,  will  guard  it  no  more  for 
ever.  One  by  one,  they  have  dropped 
away  as  you  have  journeyed  on ;  and  yet 
your  journey  does  not  seem  a  long  one. 
Life,  at  the  longest,  is  but  a  bubble  that 
bursts,  so  soon  as  it  is  rounded. 

Nelly,  your  sweet  sister,  to  whom  your 
heart  clung  so  fondly  in  the  young  days, 
and  to  whom  it  has  clung  ever  since,  in  the 
strongest  bonds  of  companionship, — is 
gone, — with  the  rest. 

Your  thought, — wayward  now,  and  flick 
ering, — runs  over  the  old  days  with  quick, 
and  fevered  step  ;  it  brings  back,  faintly  as 
it  may,  the  noisy  joys,  and  the  safety,  that 
belonged  to  the  old  garret  roof;  it  figures 
again  the  image  of  that  calm-faced  father, 
— long  since  sleeping  beside  your  mother ; 
it  rests  like  a  shadow,  upon  the  night  when 
Charlie  died;  it  grasps  the  old  figures  of 
the  school-room,  and  kindles  again  (how 
strange  is  memory),  the  fire  that  shed  its 
lustre  upon  the  curtains,  and  the  ceiling,  as 
you  lay  groaning  with  your  first  hours  of 
sickness. 

Your  flitting  recollection  brings  back 
with  gushes  of  exultation,  the  figure  of  that 
little,  blue-eyed  hoyden, — Madge, — as  she 
came  with  her  work,  to  pass  the  long  even- 


a?8  DREAM-LIFE. 

ings  with  Nelly;  it  calls  again  the  shy 
glances  that  you  cast  upon  her,  and  your 
naive  ignorance  of  all  the  little  counter-play, 
that  might  well  have  passed  between  Frank 
and  Nelly.  Your  mother's  form  too,clear  and 
distinct,  comes  upon  the  wave  of  your  rock 
ing  thought ;  her  smile  touches  you  now  in 
age,  as  it  never  touched  you  in  boyhood. 

The  image  of  that  fair  Miss  Dalton,  who 
led  your  fancy  into  such  mad  captivity, 
glides  across  your  vision  like  the  fragment 
of  a  crazy  dream — long  gone  by.  The 
country-home,  where  lived  the  grandfather 
of  Frank,  gleams  kindly  in  the  sunlight  of 
your  memory ;  and  still, — poor,  blind  Fan 
ny, — long  since  gathered  to  that  rest,  where 
her  closed  eyes  will  open  upon  visions  of 
joy, — draws  forth  a  sigh  of  pity. 

Then,  comes  up  that  sweetest,  and  bright 
est  vision  of  love,  and  the  doubt  and  care 
which  ran  before  it, — when  your  hope  groped 
eagerly  through  your  pride,  and  worldliness, 
toward  the  sainted  purity  of  her,  whom 
you  know  to  be — all  too  good  ; — when  you 
trembled  at  the  thought  of  your  own  vices, 
and  blackness,  in  the  presence  of  her,  who 
seemed — virtue's  self.  And  even  now, 
your  old  heart  bounds  with  joy,  as  you  re- 
cal  the  first  timid  assurance, — that  you 
were  blessed  in  the  possession  of  her  love, 
and  that  you  might  live  in  her  smiles. 


WHA  T  IS  GONE.  279 

Your  thought  runs  like  floating  melody, 
over  the  calm  joy  that  followed  you  through 
so  many  years — to  the  prattling  children, 
who  were  there  to  bless  your  path.  How 
poor,  seem  now  your  transports,  as  you  met 
their  childish  embraces,  and  mingled  in 
their  childish  employ ; — how  utterly  weak, 
the  actual,  when  compared  with  that  glow 
of  affection,  which  memory  lends  to  the 
scene ! 

Yet  all  this  is  gone ;  and  the  anxieties 
are  gone,  which  knit  your  heart  so  strongly 
to  those  children,  and  to  her — the  mother ; 
— anxieties  which  distressed  you, — which 
you  would  eagerly  have  shunned  ;  yet,  whose 
memory  you  would  not  now  bargain  away, 
for  a  king's  ransom.  What  were  the  sun 
light  worth,  if  clouds  did  not  sometimes 
hide  its  brightness  ;  what  were  the  spring, 
or  the  summer,  if  the  lessons  of  the  chill 
ing  winter  did  not  teach  us  the  story  of 
their  warmth  ? 

The  days  are  gone  too,  in  which  you  may 
have  lingered  under  the  sweet  suns  of 
Italy, — with  the  cherished  one  beside  you, 
and  the  eager  children,  learning  new  prat 
tle,  in  the  soft  language  of  those  Eastern 
lands.  The  evenings  are  gone,  in  which 
you  loitered  under  the  trees,  with  those 
dear  ones,  under  the  light  of  a  harvest 
moon,  and  talked  of  your  blooming  hopes, 


a8o  DREAM-LIFE. 

and  of  the  stirring  plans  of  your  manlxxxL 
There  are  no  more  ambitious  hopes — no 
more  sturdy  plans !  Life's  work  has 
rounded  into  the  evening  that  shortens 
labor. 

.  And  as  you  loiter  in  dreams  over  the 
wide  waste  of  what  is  gone, — a  mingled 
array  of  griefs  and  of  joys — of  failurej,  and 
of  triumphs, — you  bless  God,  that  there 
has  been  so  much  of  joy,  belonging  to  your 
shattered  life ;  and  you  pray  God,  with  the 
vain  fondness  that  belongs  to  a  parent's 
heart, — that  more  of  joy,  and  less  of  toil, 
may  come  near  to  the  cherished  ones,  who 
bear  up  your  hope  and  name, 

And  with  your  silent  prayer,  come  back 
the  old  teachings,  and  vagaries  of  the 
boyish  heart,  in  its  reaches  toward  Heaven. 
You  recal  the  old  church-reckoning  01  your 
goodness:  is  there  much  more  of  it  now, 
than  then  ?  Is  not  Heaven  just  as  high, 
and  the  world  as  sadly — broad  ? 

Alas,  for  the  poor  tale  of  goodness,  which 
age  brings  to  the  memory  !  There  may  be 
crowning  acts  of  benevolence,  shining  here 
and  there;  but  the  margin  of  what  has  not 
been  done,  is  very  broad.  How  weak  and 
insignificant,  seems  the  story  of  life's  good 
ness,  and  profit,  when  Death  begins  to  slant 
his  shadow  upon  our  souls  !  How  infinite, 
in  the  comparison,  seems  that  Eternal  good- 


WHA  T  IS  GONE.  a8i 

ness,  which  is  crowned  with  mercy.  How 
self  vanishes,  like  a  blasted  thing;  and 
only  lives — if  it  lives  at  all, — in  the  glow  of 
that  redeeming  light,  which  radiates  from 
the  CROSS,  and  the  THRONE. 


II. 

WHAT  IS  LEFT. 

BUT  much  as  there  is  gone  of  life,  and 
of  its  joys, — very  much  remains;^ 
very  much  in  earnest,  and  very  much 
more  in  hope.  Still,  you  see  visions,  and 
you  dream  dreams,  01  the  times  that  are 
to  come. 

Your  home,  and  heart  are  left ;  within 
that  home,  the  old  Bible  holds  its  wonted 
place,  which  was  the  monitor  of  your  boy 
hood  ;  and  now,  more  than  ever,  it  prompts 
those  reverent  reaches  of  the  spirit,  which 
go  beyond  even  the  track  of  dreams. 

That  cherished  Madge,  the  partner  of 
your  life  and  joy,  still  lingers,  though  her 
step  is  feeble,  and  her  eyes  are  dimmed  ; — 
not,  as  once,  attracting  you  by  any  outward 
show  of  beauty — your  heart  glowing  through 
the  memory  of  a  life  of  joy,  needs  no  such 
stimulant  to  the  affections.  Your  hearts 
are  knit  together  by  a  habit  of  growth,  and 
a  unanimity  of  desire.  There  is  less  tes 
(282) 


WHA  T  IS  LEFT.  383 

remind  of  the  vanities  of  earth,  and  more 
to  quicken  the  hopes  of  a  time,  when  body 
yields  to  spirit. 

Your  own  poor,  battered  hulk,  wants  no 
jaunty-trimmed  craft  for  consort ;  but  twin 
of  heart,  and  soul,  as  you  are  twin  of  years, 
you  float  tranquilly  toward  that  haven, 
which  lies  before  us  all. 

Your  children,  now  almost  verging  on 
maturity,  bless  your  hearth,  and  home. 
Not  one  is  gone.  Frank  indeed,  that  wild 
fellow  of  a  youth,  who  has  wrought  your 
heart  into  perplexing  anxieties  again  and 
again,  as  you  have  seen  the  wayward  dashes 
of  his  young  blood, — is  often  away.  But 
his  heart  yet  centres,  where  yours  centres ; 
and  his  absence  is  only  a  nearer,  and 
bolder  strife,  with  that  fierce  world,  whose 
circumstances,  every  man  of  force,  and 
energy,  is  born  to  conquer. 

His  return,  from  time  to  time,  with  that 
proud  figure  of  opening  manliness,  and  that 
full  flush  ojF  health,  speaks  to  your  affec 
tions,  as  you  could  never  have  believed  it 
would.  It  is  not  for  a  man,  who  is  the 
father  of  a  man,  to  show  any  weakness  of 
the  heart,  or  any  over-sensitiveness,  in 
those  ties  which  bind  him  to  his  kin.  And 
yet — yet,  as  you  sit  by  your  fire-side  with 
your  clear,  gray  eye,  feasting  in  its  feeble 
ness  on  that  proud  figure  of  a  man, — who 


aS4  DREAM-LIFE. 

calls  you — 'father/ — and  as  you  see  his 
fond,  andlovingattentions  to  that  one,  who 
has  been  your  partner  in  all  anxieties,  and 
joys, — there  is  a  throbbing  within  your 
bosom  that  makes  you  almost  wish  him 
young  again  : — that  you  might  embrace  him 
now,  as  when  he  warbled  in  your  rejoicing 

ear,  those  first  words  of  love. Ah,  how 

little  does  a  son  know  the  secret  and  crav 
ing  tenderness  of  a  parent; — how  little  con 
ception  has  he,  of  those  silent  bursts  of 
fondness,  and  of  joy,  which  attend  his 
coming,  and  which  crown  his  parting  ! 

There  is  young  Madge  too, — dark-eyed, 
tall,  with  a  pensive  shadow  resting  on  her 
face, — the  very  image  of  refinement,  and  of 
delicacy.  She  is  thoughtful ; — not  break 
ing  out,  like  the  hoyden,  flax-haired  Nelly, 
into  bursts  of  joy,  and  singing, — but  steal 
ing  upon  your  heart,  with  a  gentle  and 
quiet  tenderness,  that  diffuses  itself 
throughout  the  household,  like  a  soft 
zephyr  of  summer. 

There  are  friends  too  yet  left,  who  come 
in  upon  your  evening  hours  ;  and  light  up 
the  loitering  time  with  dreamy  story  of  the 
years  that  are  gone.  How  eagerly  you 
listen  to  some  gossipping  veteran  friend, 
who  with  his  deft  words,  calls  up  the 
thread  of  some  bye-gone  years  of  life  ;  and 
with  what  a  careless,  yet  grateful  recogni- 


WHA  T  IS  LEFT.  285 

tion,  you  lapse,  as  it  were,  into  the  current 
of  the  past ;  and  live  over  again,  by  your 
hospitable  blaze,  the  stir,  the  joy,  and  the 
pride  of  your  lost  manhood. 

The  children  of  friends  too,  have  grown 
upon  your  march ;  and  come  to  welcome 
you  with  that  reverent  deference,  which 
always  touches  the  heart  of  age.  That 
wild  boy  Will, — the  son  of  a  dear  friend — 
who  but  a  little  while  ago,  was  worrying 
you  with  his  boyish  pranks,  has  now  shot 
up  into  tall,  and  graceful  youth  ;  and  even 
ing  after  evening,  finds  him  making  part  of 
your  little  household  group. 

Does  the  fond  old  man  think  that 

he  is  all  the  attraction  ! 

It  may  be  that  in  your  dreamy  specula 
tions,  about  the  future  of  jour  children 
(for  still  you  dream)  vou  think  that  Will, 
may  possibly  become"  the  husband  of  the 
sedate  and  kindly  Madge.  It  worries  you 
to  find  Nelly  teasing  him  as  she  does  ;  that 
mad  hoyden  will  never  be  quiet ;  she  pro 
vokes  you  excessively ; — and  yet,  she  is  a 
dear  creature ;  there  is  no  meeting  those 
laughing  blue  eyes  of  hers,  without  a  smile, 
and  an  embrace. 

It  pleases  you  however  to  see  the  win 
ning  frankness,  with  which  Madge  always 
receives  Will.  And  with  a  little  of  your 
old  vanity  of  observation,  you  trace  out 


«86  DREAM-LIFE. 

the  growth  of  their  dawning  attachment 
It  provokes  you,  to  find  Nelly  breaking  up 
their  quiet  t$te-&-tttes  with  her  provoking 
sallies ;  and  drawing  away  Will,  to  some 
saunter  in  the  garden,  or  to  some  mad  gal 
lop  over  the  hills. 

\  At  length,  upon  a  certain  summer's  day: 
Will,  asks  to  see  you.  He  approaches  with 
a  doubtful,  and  disturbed  look;  you  fear 
that  wild  Nell  has  been  teasing  him  with 
her  pranks.  Yet  he  wears,  not  so  much 
an  offended  look,  as  one  of  fear.  You 
wonder  if  it  ever  happened  to  you,  to  carry 
your  hat  in  just  that  timid  manner,  and  to 
wear  such  a  shifting  expression  of  the  eye, 
as  poor  Will,  wears  just  now  ?  You  wonder 
if  it  ever  happened  to  you,  to  begin  to  talk 
with  an  old  friend  of  your  father's,  in  just 
that  abashed  way  ?  Will,  must  have  fallen 

into  some  sad  scrape. Well,  he  is  a  good 

fellow,  and  you  will  help  him  out  of  it. 

You  look  up  as  he  goes  on  with  his  story; 
—you  grow  perplexed  yourself; — you  scarce 
believe  your  own  ears. 

"  Nelly  ?  "—Is  Will,  talking  of  Nelly  ? 

"Yes,  sir,— Nelly." 

"  What ! — and  you  have  told  all  this 

to  Neily — that  you  love  her  ?  " 

"  I  have,  sir." 

"  And  she  says " 

**  That  I  must  speak  with  you,  sir." 


WHA  T  IS  LEFT.  287 

"Bless  my  soul! — But  she's  a  good  girl;" 
—-and  the  old  man  wipes  his  eyes. 

" Nell ! — are  you  there  ?" 

And  she  comes, — blushing,  lingering, 
yet  smiling  through  it  all. 

"  And  you  could  deceive  your  old 

father,  Nell "  (very  fondly.) 

Nelly  only  clasps  your  hand  in  both  of 
hers. 

"And  so  you  loved  Will.,  all  the  while?" 

Nelly  only  stoops,  to  drop  a  little 

kiss  of  pleading  on  your  forehead. 

"  Well,  Nelly  "  (it  is  hard  to  speak 

roundly),  "give  me  your  hand; — here 
Will., — take  it: — she's  a  wild  girl; — be 
kind  to  her,  Will.?" 

"  God  bless  you,  sir ! " 

And  Nelly  throws  herself,  sobbing,  upon 
your  bosom. 

"  Not  here, — not  here,  now,  Nell ! — 

Will,  is  yonder!" 

Sobbing,  sobbing  still.  Nelly,  Nelly, 

—who  would  have  thought  that  your  merry 
face,  covered  such  heart  of  tenderness ! 


III. 

GRIEF  AND  JOY  OF  AGE. 

winter  has  its  piercing  storms, — 
even  as  Autumn  hath.  Hoary  age, 
crowned  with  honor,  and  with  years, 
bears  no  immunity  from  suffering.  It  is 
the  common  heritage  of  us  all :  if  it  come 
not  in  the  spring,  or  in  the  summer  of  our 
day,  it  will  surely  find  us  in  the  autumn,  or 
amid  the  frosts  of  winter.  It  is  the  penalty 
humanity  pays  for  pleasure ;  human  joys 
will  have  their  balance.  Nature  never 
makes  false  weight.  The  east  wind  is  fol 
lowed  by  a  wind  from  the  west ;  and  every 
smile,  will  have  its  equivalent — in  a  tear. 

You  have  lived  long,  and  joyously,  with 
that  dear  one,  who  has  made  your  life — a 
holy  pilgrimage.  She  has  seemed  to  lead 
you  into  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  has  kin 
dled  in  you — as  the  damps  of  the  world 
came  near  to  extinguish  them, — those  hopes 
and  aspirations,  which  rest  not  in  life,  but 
soar  to  the  realm  of  spirits. 
(288) 


GRIEF  AND  JOY  OF  A GE.  289 

You  have  sometimes  shuddered  with  the 
thought  of  parting;  you  have  trembled 
even  at  the  leave-taking  of  a  year  or — of 
months ;  and  have  suffered  bitterly,  as  some 
danger  threatened  a  parting — forever.  That 
danger  threatens  now.  Nor  is  it  a  sudden 
fear,  to  startle  you  into  a  paroxysm  of  dread 
— nothing  of  this.  Nature  is  kinder, — or, 
she  is  less  kind. 

It  is  a  slow,  and  certain  approach  of  dan 
ger,  which  you  read  in  the  feeble  step, — in 
the  wan  eye,  lighting  up  from  time  to  time, 
into  a  brightness  that  seems  no  longer  of 
this  world.  You  read  it  in  the  new,  and 
ceaseless  attentions  of  the  fond  child  who 
yet  blesses  your  home ;  and  who  conceals 
from  you  the  bitterness  of  the  coming  grief. 

Frank  is  away — over  seas ;  and  as  the 
mother  mentions  that  name  with  a  tremor 
of  love,  and  of  regret,  that  he  is  not  now 
with  you  all, — you  recal  that  other  death, 
when  you  too, — were  not  there.  Then  you 
knew  little  of  a  parent's  feeling ; — now,  its 
intensity  is  present ! 

Day  after  day,  as  summer  passes,  she  is 
ripening  for  that  world  where  her  faith,  and 
her  hope,  have  so  long  lived.  Her  pressure 
of  your  hand  at  some  casual  parting  for  a 
day,  is  full  of  a  gentle  warning — as  if  she 
said — prepare  for  a  longer  adieu ! 

Her  language  too,  without  direct  men- 
K 


*gc  DREAM-LIFE. 

tion,  steeps  your  thought  in  the  bitter  cer 
tainty  that  she  foresees  her  approaching 
doom ;  and  that  she  dreads  it,  only  so  far  as 
she  dreads  the  grief,  that  will  be  left  in  her 
broken  home.  Madge — the  daughter,— 
glides  through  the  duties  of  that  house- 
hold,  like  an  angel  of  mercy :  she  lingers  at 
the  sick  bed — blessing,  and  taking  blesa* 
ings. 

The  sun  shines  warmly  without ;  and 
through  the  open  casement,  beats  warmly 
upon  the  floor  within.  The  birds  sing  in 
the  joyousness  of  full-robed  summer ;  the 
drowsy  hum  of  the  bees,  stealing  sweets 
from  the  honeysuckle  that  bowers  the  win- 
dow,  lulls  the  air  to  a  gentle  quiet.  Her 
breathing  scarce  breaks  the  summer  still 
ness.  Yet,  she  knows  it  is  nearly  over. 
Madge,  too, — with  features  saddened,  yet 
struggling  against  grief, — feels — that  it  is 
nearly  over. 

It  is  very  hard  to  think  it ; — how  much 
harder  to  Know  it !  But  there  is  no  mistak 
ing  her  look  now — so  placid,  so  gentle,  so 
resigned !  And  her  grasp  of  your  hand — 
so  warm — so  full  of  meaning ! 

"  Madge,  Madge,  must  it  be  ?  "  And 

a  pleasant  smile  lights  her  eye ;  and  her 
grasp  is  warmer ;  and  her  look  is — upward. 

— — "  Must  it, — must  it  be,  dear  Madge  ?** 


GKIEF  AND  JOY  OF  A GE.  391 

A  holier  smile, — loftier, — lit  up  of  an 
gels,  beams  on  her  faded  features.  The 
Hand  relaxes  its  clasp  ;  and  you  cling  to  it 
faster — harder; — joined  close  to  the  frail 
wreck  of  your  love ; — joined  tightly — but 
oh,  how  far  apart ! 

She  is  in  Heaven ; — and  you,  struggling 
against  the  grief  of  a  lorn,  old  man ! 

But  sorrow,  however  great  it  be,  must  be 
subdued  in  the  presence  of  a  child.  Its 
fevered  outbursts  must  be  kept  for  those 
silent  hours,  when  no  young  eyes  are  watch 
ing,  and  no  young  hearts  will  "catch  the 
trick  of  grief." 

When  the  household  is  quiet,  and  dark 
ened  ; — when  Madge  is  away  from  you,  and 
your  boy  Frank  slumbering — as  youth 
slumbers  upon  sorrow ; — when  you  are  alone 
with  God,  and  the  night, — in  that  room  so 
long  hallowed  by  her  presence,  but  now — 
deserted — silent ; — then  you  may  yield  your 
self  to  such  frenzy  of  tears,  as  your  strength 
will  let  you.  And  in  your  solitary  rambles 
through  the  churchyard,  you  can  loiter  of 
a  summer's  noon,  over  her  fresh-made  grave, 
and  let  your  pent  heart  speak,  and  your 
spirit  lean  toward  the  Rest,  where  her  love 
has  led  you. 

Thornton — the  clergyman,  whose  prayer 
over  the  dead,  has  dwelt  with  you,  comes 
from  time  to  time,  to  light  up  your  solitary 


tea  DREAM-LIFE. 

hearth,  with  his  talk  of  the  Rest-  -for  all 
men.  He  is  young,  but  his  earnest,  and 
gentle  speech,  win  their  way  to  your  heart, 
and  to  your  understanding.  You  love  his 
counsels  ;  you  make  of  him  a  friend,  whose 
vi?its  are  long,  and  often  repeated. 

Frank  only  lingers  for  a  while ;  and  you 
bid  him  again — adieu.  It  seems  to  you 
that  it  may  well  be  the  last ;  and  your  bless 
ing  trembles  on  your  lip.  Yet  you  look  not 
with  dread,  but  rather,  with  a  firm  trustf  uU 
ness  toward  the  day  of  the  end.  For  your 
darling  Madge,  it  is  true,  you  have 
anxieties ;  you  fear  to  leave  her  lonely  in 
the  world,  with  no  protector  save  the  way 
ward  Frank. 

It  is  later  August,  when  you  call  to 
Madge  one  day,  to  bring  you  the  little 
escritoire,  in  which  are  your  cherished 
papers  ; — among  them  is  your  last  will  and 
testament.  Thornton  has  just  left  you; 
and  it  seems  to  you  that  his  repeated  kind 
nesses  are  deserving  of  some  substantial 
mark  of  your  regard. 

"Maggie" — you  say,  "Mr.  Thornton 
has  been  very  kind  to  me." 

"Very  kind,  father." 

"  I  mean  to  leave  him  here,  some  little 
legacy,  Maggie." 

"I  would  not,  father." 

"But  Madge,  my  daughter!" 


GRIEF  AND  JO  Y  OF  A  GE.  993 

"He  is  not  looking  for  such  return, 
father." 

"  But  he  has  been  very  kind,  Madge  ;  I 
"nust  show  him  some  strong  token  of  my 
regard.  What  shall  it  be,  Maggie  ? " 

Madge  hesitates  ; — Madge  blushes  ;— 
Madge  stoops  to  her  father's  ear,  as  if  the 
very  walls  might  catch  the  secret  of  her 
heart ; — "Would  you  give  me  to  him, 
father?" 

"But — my  dear  Madge — has  he  asked 
this?" 

"  Eight  months  ago,  papa." 

"And  you  told  him " 

"  That  I  would  never  leave  you,  so  long 
as  you  lived ! " 

"My  own  dear  Madge, — come  to 

me,  — kiss  me !  And  you  love  him,  Maggie  ? " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  sir." 

"  So  like  your  mother, — the  same 

figure, — the  same  true  honest  heart !  It 
shall  be  as  you  wish,  dear  Madge.  Only, 
you  will  not  leave  me  in  my  old  age ; — En, 
Maggie?" 

"  Never,  father,  never." 

And  there  she  leans  upon  his  chair ; 

— her  arm  around  the  old  man's  neck,— 
her  other  hand  clasped  in  his ;  and  her  eyes 
melting  with  tenderness,  as  she  gazes  upon 
his  aged  face, — all  radiant  with  joy,  and 
with  hope. 


IV. 

THE  END  OF  DREAMS. 

A  FEEBLE  old  man,  and  a  young  lady, 
f\  who  is  just  now  blooming  into  the 
maturity  of  womanhood,  are  toiling 
up  a  gentle  slope,  where  the  spring  sun 
lies  warmly.  The  old  man  totters,  though 
he  leans  heavily  upon  his  cane ;  and  he 
pants,  as  he  seats  himself  upon  a  mossy 
rock,  that  crowns  the  summit  of  the  slope. 
As  he  recovers  breath,  he  draws  the  hand 
of  the  lady  in  his,  and  with  a  trembling 
eagerness  he  points  out  an  old  mansion 
that  lies  below  under  the  shadow  of  tall 
sycamores  ;  and  he  says — feebly  and  brok 
enly, "That  is  it,  Maggie, — the  old 

home, — the  sycamores,  —  the  garret, — 
Charlie,— Nelly  " 

The  old  man  wipes  his  eyes.  Then  his 
hand  shifts  :  he  seems  groping  in  darkness  ; 
but  soon  it  rests  upon  a  little  cottage  below, 
heavily  overshadowed : — 

"That  was  it,  Maggie: — Madge  lived 
there — sweet  Madge, — your  mother," > 

Again  the  old  man  wipes  his  eyes,  and 
the  lady  turns  away. 

(»*) 


THE  END  OF  DREAMS.  2gs 

Presently  they  walk  down  the  hill  to 
gether.  They  cross  a  little  valley,  with 
slow,  faltering  steps.  The  lady  guides  him 
carefully,  until  they  reach  a  little  grave 
yard. 

"This  must  be  it,  Maggie,  but  the  fence 
is  new.  There  it  is  Maggie,  under  the 
willow, — my  poor  mother's  grave!" 

The  lady  weeps. 

"Thank  you,  Madge  :  you  did  not  know 
her,  but  you  weep  for  me : — God  bless 
you ! " 

The  old  man  is  in  the  midst  of  his  house 
hold.  It  is  some  festive  day.  He  holds 
feebly  his  place,  at  the  head  of  the  board. 
He  utters  in  feeble  tones — a  Thanksgiving. 

His  married  Nelly  is  there,  with  two 
blooming  children.  Frank  is  there,  with  his 
bride.  Madge — dearest  of  all, — is  seated 
beside  the  old  man,  watchful  of  his  com 
fort,  and  assisting  him,  as,  with  a  shadowy 
dignity,  he  essays  to  do  the  honors  of  the 
board.  The  children  prattle  merrily :  the 
elder  ones  talk  of  the  days  gone  by ;  and 
the  old  man  enters  feebly — yet  with  float 
ing  glimpses  of  glee, — into  the  cheer,  and 
the  rejoicings. 

Poor  old  man,  he  is  near  his  tomb! 

yet  his  calm  eye,  looking  upward,  seem* 
to  snow  no  fear. 


«9&  DREAM-LIFE. 

The  same  old  man  is  in  his  chamber:  he 
cannot  leave  his  chair  now.  Madge  is  be 
side  him:  Nelly  is  there  too,  with  her 
eldest-born.  Madge  has  been  reading  to 
the  old  man  : — it  was  a  passage  of  promise 
—of  the  Bible  promise. 

"A  glorious  promise," — says  the  old 

man  feebly.  " A  promise  to  me, — a 

promise  to  her — poor  Madge!" 

"  Is  her  picture  there,  Maggie  ? " 

Madge  brings  it  to  him :  he  turns  his 
head ;  but  the  light  is  not  strong.  They 
wheel  his  chair  to  the  window.  The  sun  is 
shining  brightly : — still  the  old  man  cannot 
see. 

"  It  is  getting  dark,  Maggie." 

Madge  looks  at  Nelly — wistfully — sadly. 

The  old  man  murmurs  something;  and 

Madge  stoops  : "  Coming,"  he  says 

"coming  ! " 

Nelly  brings  the  little  child  to  take  his 
hand.  Perhaps  it  will  revive  him.  She 
lifts  her  boy  to  kiss  his  cheek. 

The  old  man  does  not  stir :  his  eyes  do 
not  move : — they  seem  fixed  above.  The 
child  cries  as  his  lips  touch  the  cold  cheek  : 

It  is  a  tender  SPRING  flower,  upon  the 

bosom  of  the  dying  WINTER  ! 

—The  old  man  is  gone :  his  dream 

fife  is  ended. 

THE  END. 


PUBLICATIONS  OF 

HENRY  ALTEMUS  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 

ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED  VADEMECUM  SERIES. 

Containing  the  most  popular  works  of  standard 
authors.  HANDY  VOLUME,  LARGE;  TYPE  editions, 
with  appropriate  text  and  full-page  illustrations. 
Superior  paper  and  printing.  Illuminated  title 
pages,  etched  portraits,  and  original  aquarelle 
frontispieces  in  eight  colors. 

Full  cloth,  ivory  finish,  embossed  gold  and  inlaid 
colors,  with  side  titles,  boxed,  40  cents. 


1  Abbe  Constant  in.     Halevy. 

2  Adventures  of  a  Brownie.    Mulock. 

3  Alice's     Adventures     in     Wonderland. 

Carroll. 

4  American  Notes.    Kipling. 

5  Autobiography  of  Benjamin  Franklin. 

6  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table.  Holmes. 

7  A  Son  of  the  Carolinas.    Satterthwaite. 

8  Antony  and  Cleopatra.    Shakespeare 

9  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.    Shakes 

peare. 

11  Bab  Ballads  and  Savoy  Songs.     Gilbert. 

12  Bacon's  Essays. 

13  Balzac's  Shorter  Stories. 

14  Barrack-Room      Ballads     and     Ditties. 

Kipling. 

15  Battle  of  Life.    Dickens. 

1 6  Biglow  Papers.     Lowell. 

17  Black  Beauty.    Seivell. 

1 8  Biithedale  Romance,  The.    Hawthorne. 

19  Bracebridge  Hall.    Irving. 

20  Bryant's  Poems. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 

...  21  Beecher's  Addresses. 

...  22  Best  Thoughts.    Henry  Drumntond. 

...  23  Brook's  Addresses. 

...  26  Camille.     Dumas,  Jr. 

...  27  Carmen.    Merimee. 

...  28  Charlotte  Temple;    Rowson. 

...  29  Chesterfield's    Letters,    Sentences    and 

Maxims. 

...  30  Child's  Garden  of  Verses.    Stevenson. 
...  31  Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage.    Byron. 
...  32  Chimes,  The.    Dickens. 
...  33  Christie's  Old  Organ.     Walton. 
...  34  Christmas  Carol,  A.    Dickens. 
...  35  Confessions    of   an   Opium    Eater.      De 

Quincy. 

...  36  Cranford.     Gaskell. 
...  37  Cricket  on  the  Hearth.    Dickens. 
...  38  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,  The.    Ruskin. 
...  39  Comedy  of  Errors.    Shakespeare. 
...  40  Crucifixion  of  Philip  Strong.    Sheldon* 
...  43  Day  Breaketh,  The.    Shugert. 
...  44  Days    with    Sir    Roger   De    Coverley. 

Addison. 

...  45  Discourses,  Epictetus. 
...  46  Dog  of  Flanders,  A.     Ouida. 
...  47  Dream  Life.    Mitchell. 
...  48  Dally  Food  for  Christians. 
...  49  Drummond's  Addresses. 
...  51  Emerson's  Essays,  First  Series. 
...  52  Emerson's  Essays,  Second  Series. 
...  53  Endymion.    Keats. 
...  54  Essays  of  Ella.    Lamb. 
...  55  Ethics  of  the  Dust.    Ruskin. 
...  56  Evangeline.    Longfellow. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 

...  61  Fairy  Land  of  Science.    Buckley. 

...  62  Panchon.    Sand. 

...  63  For  Daily  Bread.    Sienkiewicz. 

...  67  Grammar  of  Palmistry.    St.  Hill. 

...  68  Greek  Heroes.    Kingsley. 

...  69  Gulliver's  Travels.    Swift. 

...  70  Gold  Dust. 

...  73  Hamlet.     Shakespeare. 

...  74  Hania.    Sienkiewicz. 

...  75  Haunted  Man,  The.    Dickens. 

...  76  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship.    Carlyle. 

...  77  Hiawatha,  The  Song  of.    Longfellow. 

...  78  Holmes'  Poems. 

...  79  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.    Hawthorne. 

...  80  House  of  the  Wolf.     Weyman. 

...  81  Hyperion.    Longfellow. 

...  87  Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow.   Jerome. 

...  88  Idylls  of  the  King.     Tennyson. 

...  89  Impregnable   Rock   of   Holy    Scripture. 

Gladstone. 

...  90  In  Black  and  White.    Kipling. 
...  91  In  Memoriam.     Tennyson. 
...  92  Imitation  of  Christ.    A1  Kempis. 
...  93  In  Jlis  Steps.     Sheldon. 
...  95  Julius  Caesar.    Shakespeare. 
...  96  Jessica's  First  Prayer.    Stretton. 
...  97  J.  Cole.     Gellibrand. 
...  98  John  Ploughman's  Pictures.    Spurgeo*. 
...  99  John  Ploughman's  Talk.    Spurgeon. 
...100  King  Richard  HI.    Shakespeare. 
...101  Kavanagh.    Longfellow. 
...102  Kidnapped.    Stevenson. 
...103  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York. 

Irving. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 


...104  Keble's  Christian  Year. 

...105  Kept  for  the  Master's  Use.    Havergal. 

...106  King  Lear.    Shakespeare. 

...107  La  Belle  Nivernaise.    Daudet. 

...108  Laddie  and  Miss  Toosey's  Mission. 

...109  Lady  of  the  Lake.    Scott. 

...no  Lalla  Rookh.    Moore. 

...in  Last  Essays  of  Elia.    Lamb. 

...112  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,  The.    Macaulay. 

...113  Let  Us  Follow  Him.    Sienkiewicz. 

...114  Light  of  Asia.    Arnold. 

...115  Light  That  Failed,  The.    Kipling. 

...116  Little  Lame  Prince.    Mulock. 

...117  Longfellow's  Poems,  Vol.  I. 

...118  Longfellow's  Poems,  Vol.  II. 

...119  Lowell's  Poems. 

...120  Lucile.    Meredith. 

...121  Line  Upon  Line. 

...126  Magic  Nuts,  The.    Molesivorth. 

...127  Manon  Lescaut.    Prevost. 

...128  Marmion.    Scott. 

...129  Master  of  Ballantrae,  The.    Stevenson. 

...130  Milton's  Poems. 

...131  Mine  Own  People.    Kipling. 

...132  Minister  of  the  World,  A.    Mason. 

...133  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse.    Hawthorne. 

...134  Mulvaney  Stories.    Kipling. 

...135  Macbeth.     Shakespeare. 

...140  Natural    Law   in   the    Spiritual    World. 

Drummond. 
...141  Nature,  Addresses  and  Lectures. 

Emerson. 
...145  Old  Christmas.     Irving. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  Series.— Continued 

...146  Outre -Mer.     Longfellow. 

...147  Othello,  the  Moor  of  Venice.  Shakespeare. 

...150  Paradise  Lost.    Milton. 

...151  Paradise  Regained.    Milton. 

...152  Paul  and  Virginia.    Sainte  Pierre. 

...153  Peter  Schlemihl.    Chamisso. 

...154  Phantom  Rickshaw.    Kipling. 

...155  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The.    JBunyan, 

...156  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills.    Kipling. 

...157  Pleasures  of  Life.    Lubbock. 

...158  Plutarch's  Lives. 

...159  Poe's  Poems. 

...160  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.  Ingrahnm. 

...161  Princess  and  Maud.     Tennyson. 

...162  Prue  and  I.     Curtis. 

...163  Peep  of  Day. 

...164  Precept  Upon  Precept. 

...169  Queen  of  the  Air.    Ruskin. 

...172  Rab  and  His  Friends.    Brown. 

...173  Representative  Men.    Emerson. 

...174  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor.    Mitchell. 

...175  Rip  Van  Winkle.    Irving. 

...176  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man.    Feuillet. 

...177  Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam. 

...178  Romeo  and  Juliet.    Shakespeare. 

...179  Robert  Hardy's  Seven  Days.    Sheldon. 

...182  Samantha  at  Saratoga.    J I  alley. 

...183  Sartor  Resartus.     Carlyle. 

...i8v  Scarlet  Letter,  The.    Hawthorne. 

...185  School  for  Scandal.    Sheridan. 

...186  Sentimental  Journey,  A.    Sterne. 

...187  Sesame  and  Lilies.    Ruskin. 

...188  Shakespeare's  Heroines.    Jameson. 

...189  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.    Goldsmith. 


Altemus'  New  Illustrated  Vademecum  scries.— Continued 


...190  Silas  Marner.     Eliot. 
...191  Sketch  Book,  The.    Irving. 
...192  Snow  Image,  The,    Hawthorne. 
...199  Tales  from  Shakespeare.     Lamb. 
...200  Tanglewood  Tales.    Hawthorne. 
...201  Tartarin  of  Tarascon.    Daudet. 
...202  Tartarin  on  the  Alps.     Daudet. 
...203  Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar-Room.    Arthur. 
...204  Things  Will  Take  a  Turn.     Harraden. 
...205  Thoughts.     Marcus  Aurelius. 
...206  Through  The  Looking  Glass.     Carroll. 
...207  Tom  Brown's  School  Days.    Hughes. 
...2^8  Treasure  Island.    Stevenson. 
...209  Twice  Told  Taies.    Hawthorne. 
...210  Two  Years  Before  the  Mast.    Dana. 
...211  The  Merchant  of  V«nice.    Shakespeare. 
...212  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

Shakespeare. 

...217  Unc!e  Tom's  Cabin.    Stowe. 
...218  Undine.     Fouque. 
...222  Vic,  the  autobiography  of  a  fox-terrier. 

Marsh. 

...22$  Vicar  of  Wakefleld.     Goldsmith. 
...226  Walden.     Thoreau. 
...227  Water=  Babies.     Kingsley. 
...228  Weird  Tales.     Poe. 
...229  What  is  Art.     Tolstoi. 
...230  Whittier's  Poerns,  Vol.  I. 
...231  Whittier's  Poems,  Vol.  II. 
...232  Window  in  Thrums.     Barrie. 
...233  Women's  Work  in  the  Home.     Farrar. 
...234  Wonder  Book,  A.     Hawthorne. 
...241  Yellowplash  Papers,  The.      Thackeray. 
...244  Zoe.     By  author  of  Laddie,  etc. 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED 
ONE  SYLLABLE  SERIES  FOR  YOUNG  READERS. 


Embracing  popular  works  arranged  for  the 
young  folks  in  words  of  one  syllable. 

Printed  from  extra  large  clear  type  on  fine  en 
amelled  paper  and  fully  illustrated  by  famous 
artists.  The  handsomest  line  of  books  for  young 
children  before  the  public. 

Fine  English  cloth ;  handsome,  new,  original 
designs.  50  cents. 

1.  /Esop's  Fables.     62  illustrations. 

2.  A  Child's  Life  of  Christ.     49  illustrations. 

3.  A  Child's   Story  of  the    Bible.        72  illus 

trations. 

4.  The  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe.      70 

illustrations. 

5.  Bunyan's   Pilgrim's    Progress.        46    illus 

trations. 

6.  Swiss  Family  Robinson.      50  illustrations. 

7.  Gulliver's  Travels.    50  illustrations. 

8.  Bible  Stories  for  Little  Children.    80  illus 

trations. 


ALTEMUS' 
YOUNQ  PEOPLES*  LIBRARY. 

PRICE,  50  CENTS  EACH. 


Robinson  Crusoe.  (Chiefly  in  words  of  one 
syllable.)  His  life  and  strange,  surprising 
adventures,  with  70  beautiful  illustrations  by 
Walter  Paget. 

Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland.  With  42 
illustrations  by  John  Tennicl.  "  The  most  de 
lightful  of  children's  stories.  Elegcl?  and 
delicious  nonsense." — "Saturday  Review." 

Through  the  Looking-glass  and  what  Alice 
Found  There.  A  companion  to  "Alice  in 
Wonderland,"  with  50  illustrations  by  John 
Tenniel. 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

Banyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress.  Arranged  for 
young  readers.  With  50  full-page  and  text 
illustrations. 

A  Child's  Story  of  the  Bible.  With  72  full-page 
illustrations. 

A  Child's  Life  of  Christ.  With  49  illustrations. 
Non-sectarian.  Children  are  early  attracted 
and  sweetly  riveted  by  the  wonderful  Story  of 
the  Master  from  the  Manger  to  the  Throne. 

Swiss  Family  Robinson.  With  50  illustrations. 
The  father  of  the  family  tells  the  tale  of  the 
vicissitudes  through  which  he  and  his  wife  and 
children  pass,  the  wonderful  discoveries  made 
and  dangers  encountered.  The  book  is  full  of 
interest  and  instruction. 

Christopher  Columbus  and  the  Discovery  of 
America.  With  70  illustrations.  Every  Am 
erican  boy  and  girl  should  be  acquainted  with 
the  story  of  the  life  of  the  great  discoverer, 
with  its  struggles,  adventures  and  trials. 

The  Story  of  Exploration  and  Discovery  in 
Africa.  With  80  illustrations.  Records  the 
experiences  of  adventures  and  discoveries  in 
developing  the  "Dark  Continent." 

The  Fables  of  ,42sop.  Compiled  from  the  best 
accepted  sources.  With  62  illustrations.  The 
fables  of  ^sop  are  among  the  very  earliest 
compositions  of  this  kind,  and  probably  have 
never  been  surpassed  for  point  and  brevity. 

Gulliver's  Travels.  Adapted  for  young  readers, 
with  50  illustrations. 

Mother  Goose's  Rhymes,  Jingles  and  Fairy 
Tales.  With  234  illustrations. 

Lives  of  the  Presidents  of  the  United  States. 

By  Prescott  Holmes.     With  portraits  of  the 
Presidents  and  also  of  the  unsuccessful  candi- 


Altemus'  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

dates  for  the  office  ;  as  -well  as  the  ablest  of  the 
Cabinet  officers.     Revised  and  up-to-date. 
The  Story  of  Adventure  in  the  Frozen  Seas. 

With  70  illustrations.  By  Prescott  Holmes. 
The  book  shows  how  much  can  be  accomplished 
by  steady  perseverance  and  indomitable  pluck. 

Illustrated  Natural  History.     By  the  Rev.  J.  G. 

Wood,  -with  80  illustrations.  This  author  has 
done  more  to  popularize  the  study  of  natural 
history  than  any  other  -writer.  The  illustrations 
are  striking  and  life-like. 

A  Child's  History  of  England.  By  Charles 
Dickens,  with  50  illustrations.  Tired  of  listen 
ing  to  his  children  memorize  the  twaddle  of  old- 
fashioned  English  history,  the  author  covered 
the  ground  in  his  own  peculiar  and  happy  style 
for  his  own  children's  use.  When  the  work 
was  published  its  success -was  instantaneous. 

Black  Beauty  :  The  Autobiography  of  a  Horse. 
By  Anna  Sewell,  with  50  illustrations.  This 
work  is  to  the  animal  kingdom  what  "  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin  "  was  to  the  Afro- American. 

The  Arabian  Nights  Entertainments.  With 
130  illustrations.  Contains  the  most  favorably 
known  of  the  stories. 

Grimm's  Fairy  Tales.  With  55  illustrations. 
The  tales  are*  a  wonderful  collection,  as  in 
teresting,  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  as  they 
are  delightful  as  stories. 

Flower  Fables.  By  Louisa  May  Alcott.  With 
numerous  illustrations,  full-page  and  text. 

A  series  of  very  interesting  fairy  tales  by  the 
most  charming  of  American  story-tellers. 

Andersen's  Fairy  Tales.  By  Hans  Christian 
Andersen.  With  77  illustrations. 

These  wonderful  tales  are  not  only  attractive 
to  the  young,  but  equally  acceptable  to  those 
of  mature  years. 


Altemus*  Young  Peoples'  Library.— Continued. 

Grandfather's  Chair;  A  History  for  Youth.    By 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  With  60  illustrations. 
The  story  of  America  from  the  landing  of  the 
Puritans  to  the  acknowledgment  without  re 
serve  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States. 

Aunt  Martha's  Corner  Cupboard.  By  Mary  and 
Elizabeth  Kirby,  with  60  illustrations.  Stories 
about  Tea,  Coffee,  Sugar,  Rice  and  Chinaware, 
and  other  accessories  of  the  well-kept  Cupboard. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  Independence.  By 
Prescott  Holmes,  with  70  illustrations.  A 
graphic  and  full  history  of  the  Rebellion  of  the 
American  Colonies  from  the  yoke  and  oppres 
sion  of  England.  Including  also  an  account  of 
the  second  war  with  Great  Britain,  and  the 
War  with  Mexico. 

Battles  of  the  War  for  the  Union.  By  Prescott 
Holmes,  with  80  illustrations.  A  correct  and 
impartial  account  of  the  greatest  civil  war  in 
the  annals  of  history.  Both  of  these  histories 
of  American  wars  are  a  necessary  part  of  the  edu 
cation  of  all  intelligent  American  boys  and  girls. 

Water  Babies.  By  Charles  Kingsley,  with  84 
illustrations.  A  charming  fairy  tale. 

Young  PeopSe's  History  of  the  War  w2th  Spain. 
By  Prescott  Holmes,  with  86  illustrations.  The 
story  of  the  war  for  the  freedom  of  Cuba, 
arranged  for  young  readers. 

Heroes  of  the  United  States  Navy.  By  Hart- 
well  James,  with  65  illustrations.  From  the 
days  of  the  Revolution  until  the  end  of  the 
War  with  Spain. 

Military  Heroes  of  the  United  States.  By 
Hartwell  James,  with  nearly  i  oo  illustrations. 
Their  brave  deeds  from  I/exington  to  Santiago, 
told  in  a  captivating  manner. 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.  By  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe, 
with  50  illustrations.  Arranged  for  young 
readers. 

Sea  Kings  and  IN.uva!  Heroes.  By  Hartwell 
James,  with  50  illustrations. 


Altemus'  Illustrated  Editions. 


ABBOTT'S  HISTORICAL  SERIES. 

PRICE,  50  CENTS  EACH. 

A  well-known  and  popular  series  of  biographical  histories, 
by  JACOB  ABBOTT,  containing  the  lives  and  deeds  of  founders 
of  Empires,  Her  es  and  Heroines  of  History,  Kings,  Queens 
and  Conquerors. 

Handsomely  printed  from  large,  clear  type,  on  extra-fine 
super-calendered  paper  and  embellished  with  half-tone 
frontispieces,  numerous  full-page  and  text  illustrations  and 
maps 

...  i  Romulus,  the  Founder  of  Rome.    With  49 

illustrations. 
...  2  Cyrus    the    Great,    the    Founder   of  the 

Persian  Empire.    With  40  illustrations. 
...  3  Darius  the  Great,  King  of  the  Medes  and 

Persian.     With  34  illustrations. 
...  4  Xerxes  the  Great,  King  of  Persia.    With 

39  illustrations. 
...  5  Alexander   the   Great,  King  of  Macedon. 

With  51  illustrations. 

...  6  Pyrrhus,  King  of   Epirus.     With  45  illus 
trations. 

...  7  Hannibal,  the  Carthaginian.     With  37  illus 
trations. 
...  8  Julius    Caesar,  the   Roman    Conqueror. 

With  44  illustrations. 
...  9  Alfred  the  Great,   of  England.    With  40 

illustrations. 
...10  William  the  Conqueror,  of  England.  With 

43  illustrations. 
...ii  Hernando    Cortez,  the    Conqueror   of 

Mexico.     With  30  illustrations. 
...12  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots.  With  45  illustrations. 
...13  Queen    Elizabeth,    of    England.    With  49 

illustrations. 
...14  King  Charles  the  First,  of  England.    With 

41  illustrations. 
...15  King   diaries    the  Second,    of    England. 

With  38  illustrations. 
...16  Maria  Antoinette,  Queen  of  France.    With 

41  illustrations. 


Altetnus'  Illustrated  Editions.— Continued. 

...17  Madam  Roland,  A  Heroine  of  the  French 
Revolution.  With  42  illustrations. 

...18  Josephine,  Empress  of  Prance.  With  40 
illustrations. 


ALTEMUS*  DAINTY  SERIES  OF 
CHOICE  GIFT  BOOKS. 

PRICE,  50  CENTS. 

Bound  in  half -white  Vellum,  illuminated  sides, 
unique  design  in  gold,  with  numerous  half-tone 
illustrations.  Size,  6^  x  8  inches. 

...  I  The  Silver  Buckle.    By  M.  Nataline  Cr»mp- 

ton.     With  12  illustrations. 
...  2  Charles  Dickens'  Children  Stories.    With 

30  illustrations. 
...  3  The    Children's  Shakespeare.      With    30 

illustrations. 
...  4  Young  Robin  Hood.     By  G.  Manville  Fenn. 

With  30  illustrations. 
...  5  Honor  Bright.     By  Mary  C.  Rowsell.     With 

24  illustrations. 
...  6  The  Yoyage  of  the  Mary  Adair.  By  Frances 

E.  Crompton.     With  19  illustrations. 
...  7  The  Kingfisher's  Egg.    By  L.   T.  Meade. 

With  24  illustrations. 

...  8  Tattine.     By  Ruth  Ogden.      With  24  illus 
trations. 
...  9  The  Doings  of  a  Dear  Little  Couple     By 

Mary  D.  Brine.     With  20  illustrations. 
...10  Our  Soldier  Boy.     By  G.   Manville   Fenn. 

With  23  illustrations. 
...n  The  Little  Skipper.     By  G.  Manville  Fenn. 

With  22  illustrations. 
...12  Little  Qervalse  and  other  Stories.    With 

22  illustrations. 
...13  The   Christmas    Fairy.    By  John  Strange 

Winter.     With  24  illustrations. 


ALTEMUS'  ILLUSTRATED  DEVOTIONAL  SERIES 


An  entirely  new  line  of  popular  Religious  Litera 
ture,  carefully  printed  on  fine  paper,  daintily  and 
durably  bound  in  handy  volume  size. 

Full  White  Vellum,  handsome  new  mosaic  design 
in  gold  and  colors,  gold  edges,  boxed,  50  cents. 

...  i  Abide  in  Christ.    Murray. 

...  3  Beecher's  Addresses. 

...  4  Best  Thoughts.    From  Henry  Drummond. 

...  5  Bible  Birthday  Book. 

...  6  Brooks'  Addresses. 

...  7  Buy  Your  Own  Cherries,    Kirton. 

...  8  Changed  Cross,  The. 

...  9  Christian  Life.     Oxenden. 

...10  Christian  Living.    Meyer. 

...12  Christie's  Old  Organ.     Walton. 

...13  Coming  to  Christ.    Havergal. 

...14  Daily  Food  for  Christians. 

...15  Day  Breaketh,  The.    Shugert. 

...17  Drumir.ond's  Addresses. 

...18  Evening  Thoughts.    Havergal. 

...19  Gold  Dust. 

...20  Holy  in  Christ. 

...21  Imitation  of  Christ,  The.    A' Kempis. 

...22  Impregnable  Rock  of  Holy  Scripture. 

Gladstone* 

...23  Jessica's  First  Prayer.    Stretton. 
...24  John   Ploughman's   Pictures.     Spurgeon. 
...25  John  Ploughman's  Talk.    Spurgeon. 
...26  Kept  for  the  Master's  Use.    Havergal. 
...27  Keble's  Christian  Year. 
...28  Let  Us  Follow  Him.    Sienkiewicz. 
...29  Like  Christ.    Murray. 
...30  Line  Upon  Line. 
...31  Manliness  of  Christ,  The.    Hughes. 


Henry  Altemus'  Publications. 


...32  Message  of  Peace,  The.     Church. 
...33  Morning  Thoughts.     Havergal. 
...34  My  King  and  His  Service.    Havergal. 
...35  Natural  Law  in  the  Spiritual  World. 

Drummond. 
...37  Pathway  of  Promise. 

...38  Pathway  of  Safety.     Oxenden. 

...39  Peep  of  Day. 

...40  Pilgrim's  Progress,  The.    Bunyan. 

...41  Precept  Upon  Precept. 

...42  Prince  of  the  House  of  David.    Ingrahatn. 

...44  Shepherd  Psalm.    Meyer. 

...45  Steps  Into  the  Blessed  Life.     Meyer. 

...46  Stepping  Heavenward.     Prentiss. 

...47  The  Throne  of  Grace. 

...50  With  Christ.    Murray. 

The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic  (a  History).  By  John  Loth- 
rop  Motley.  55  full-page  half-tone  Engravings.  Complete  in 
two  volumes — over  1,600  pages.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  per  set, 
$2.00.  Half  Morocco,  gilt  top,  per  set,  £3  25. 

Quo  Vadis.  A  tale  of  the  time  of  Nero,  by  Henryk  Sienkiewici. 
Complete  and  unabridged.  Translated  by  Dr.  S.  A.  Binion. 
Illustrated  by  M.  De  Lipman.  Crown  8vo.  Cloth,  ornamen 
tal,  515  pages,  $1.25. 

With  Fire  and  Sword.  By  the  author  of  "Quo  Vadis."  A 
tale  of  the  past.  Illustrated.  Crown  8vo.  825  pages,  Ji.co. 

Pan  Michael.  By  the  author  of  "  Quo  Vadis."  A  historical 
tale.  Illustrated.  Crown  8vo.  530  pages,  $1.00. 

Julian,  the  Apostate.  By  S.  Mereshkovslti.  Illustrated.  Cloth 
i2mo.  450  pages,  Ji.oo. 

Manual  of  flythology.  For  the  use  of  Schools,  Art  Students, 
and  General  Readers,  by  Alexander  S.  Murray.  With  Notes, 
Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H.  Klapp.  With  200 
illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large  izmo.  Over 
400  pages,  $z. 25. 

The  Age  of  Fable;  or  Beauties  of  Mythology.  By  Thomas 
Bulfinch,  with  Notes,  Revisions,  and  Additions  by  William  H. 
Klapp.  With  200  illustrations  and  an  exhaustive  Index.  Large 
i2mo.  450  pages,  $1.25. 

Stephen.  A  Soldier  of  the  Cross.  By  Florence  Morse 
Kingsley.  author  of  "Titus,  a  Comrade  of  the  Cross."  Cloth, 
I2mo.  369  pages,  $1.00. 


Henry  Altemus*  Publications. 


The  Cross  Triumphant.  By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley,  author 
of  "  Paul  and  Stephen."  Cloth,  121110.  364  pages,  $1.00. 

Paul.  A  Herald  of  the  Cross.  By  Florence  Morse  Kingsley. 
Cloth,  izrno.  450  pages,  fi.oo. 

The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  as  John  Bunyan  wrote  it.  A  fac 
simile  reproduction  of  the  first  edition,  published  in  1678 
Antique  cloth,  I2mo.  $1.25. 

The  Fairest  of  the  Fair.  By  Hildegarde  Hawthorne.  Cloth, 
i6mo.  $1.25. 

Around  the  World  io  Eighty  Minutes.  Contains  over  TOO 
photographs  of  the  most  famous  places  and  edifices,  with  des 
criptive  text.  Cloth,  50  cents. 

Shakespeare's  Complete  Works.  With  64  Boydell,  and 
numerous  other  illustrations,  four  volumes,  over  2,000  pages. 
Half  Morocco,  12010.  Boxed,  per  set.  $3.00. 

The  Care  of  Children.    By  Elizabeth  R.  Scovil.    Cloth,  i2mo. 

£1.00 

Preparation  for  Motherhood.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Scovil.  Cloth, 
I2mo.  320  pages,  $1.00. 

Baby's  Requirements.  By  Elizabeth  R.  Scovil.  I.imp  bind 
ing,  leatherette.  25  cents. 

Names  lor  Children.  By  Elizabeth  Robinson  Scovil.  Cloth, 
zzmo.  40  cents. 

Trif  and  Trlxy.  By  John  Habberton,  author  of  "  Helen's 
Babies."  Cloth,  12010.  50  cents. 

She  Who  Will  Not  When  She  May.  By  Eleanor  G.  Walton. 
Half-tone  illustrations  by  C.  P.  M.  Rumford.  "An  exquisite 
prose  idyll."  Cloth,  gilt  top,  deckle  edges,  jgj.oo. 

A  Son  of  the  Carolina*.  By  C.  E.  Satterthwaite.  Cloth, 
1 2 mo.  280  pages,  50  cents. 

What  Women  Shauld  Know.  By  Mrs.  E.  B.  Duffy.  Cloth, 
320  pages,  75  cents. 

Dore  Masterpieces. 

The  Dore  Bible  Gallery.  Containing  100  full-page  engravings 
by  Gustave  Dore. 

Milton's  Paradise  Lost.  With  50  full-page  engravings  by  Gus 
tave  Dore. 

Dante's  Enferno.  With  75  full-page  engravings  by  GusUre 
Dore. 

Dante's  Purgatory  and  Paradise.  With  60  full-page  engrav 
ings  by  Gustave  Dore. 

Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the  King.  With  37  full-page  engraving* 
by  Gustave  Dore. 

The   Rime   of   the   Ancient   flariner.      By  Samuel  Taylor 
Coleridge,  with  46  full-page  engravings  by  Gustave  Dore. 
Cloth,  ornamental,  large  quarto  (9  x  12).     Each  jja.oo. 


EDITION  SHAKESPEARE'S  PLAYS. 

HANDY  VOLUME  SIZE. 

With  a  historical  and  critical  introduction  to  each 
volume,  by  Professor  Henry  Morley. 


Limp  cloth  binding,  gold  top,  illuminated  title 

and  frontispiece 35  cts. 

Paste-grain  roan,  flexible,  gold  top    ...  50  cts. 

1.  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well. 

2.  Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

3.  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

4.  As  You  Like  It. 

5.  Comedy  of  Errors. 

6.  Coriolanus. 

7.  Cymbellne. 

8.  Hamlet. 

9.  Julius  Ctesar. 

10.  King  Henry  IV.    (Part  I.) 

11.  King  Henry  IV.    (Part  II.) 

12.  King  Henry  V. 

13.  King  Henry  VI.    (Part  I.) 

14.  King  Henry  VI.    (Part  II.) 

15.  King  Henry  VI.    (Part  III.) 

16.  King  Henry  VIII. 

17.  King  John. 
10.  King  Lear. 

19.  King  Richard  II. 

20.  King  Richard  III. 

21.  Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

22.  Macbeth. 

23.  Measure  for  Measure. 

24.  Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

25.  Othello. 

26.  Pericles. 

27.  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

28.  The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

29.  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 

30.  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 

31.  The  Tempest. 

32.  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

33.  The  Winter's  Tale. 

34.  Timon  of  Athens. 

35.  Titus  Andronicus. 

36.  Troilus  and  Cressida. 

37.  Twelfth  Might. 

38.  Venus  and  Adonis  and  Lucrece. 

39.  Sonnets,  Passionate  Pilgrim,  Etc. 


